


Sigil of the Krayt

by rejectedbard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anarchist Jango Fett, Developing Friendships, Force Bond (Star Wars), Found Family, Gen, Mind Games, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Politics, jango has a parsec-wide soft spot for children, like a gratuitous amount of politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 93,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rejectedbard/pseuds/rejectedbard
Summary: When the Council neglects to reconsider young Anakin’s placement within the Order, Obi-Wan has a promise to keep. The two find themselves embarking upon an unorthodox tutelage outside the structure of the Temple. Afloat in the Galaxy, the only direction they have is to return to Shmi Skywalker.Jango Fett is just a simple man trying to make his way in the universe. Unfortunately, he finds himself incapable of saying no to a child who only wants to be reunited with his mother.With darkness lurking on the horizon and unseen plans already set in motion, survival depends on relying on what resources they have available: each other.…A post-Phantom Menace canon divergence AU featuring accidental family.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Bail Organa & Jango Fett, Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jango Fett & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jango Fett & Shmi Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 435
Kudos: 1040





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My passion for legends and the prequels is unparalleled and this concept wiggled its way into my brain unbidden and won't let go, so unfortunately I have no choice but to follow where the muse leads. I'm playing fast and loose with some weird blend of legends and canon alike, so bear with me.

Obi-Wan keeps a steadying hand on Anakin’s shoulder in an attempt to both guide and shield him as they weave through the thinning crowds of CoCo Town. Since leaving the Temple, the boy hasn’t said much; his anxiety and disappointment have been bleeding into the Force since the Council gave their final verdict, though even without access to the force the displeasure can be read clear as day in the way the nine-year-old’s brows furrow and his lips purse in thought. The events of the day – the last fortnight, if he’s being honest – blur a little too much for Obi-Wan’s comfort, and he has to force himself to take a tempered breath. He’s careful to maintain his shields despite the exhaustion starting to claw at him in resistance to the mental strain, but Qui-Gon was decidedly right about one thing: Anakin may be untrained, but he is deceptively strong in the Force. Better for Obi-Wan to fend off exhaustion than to accidentally leak his own concerns into the Force.  
  
The key is maintaining composure until he knows that he has enough time to properly reflect and let go of Naboo. If he stops to think about the implications of him walking through CoCo Town with Anakin in toe, then he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. He takes another deep breath through his nose. _Later,_ reminds the echo in the back of his mind, a semblance of stability repeating the new mantra whenever his jaw clenches and the anxiety seeps back in. _Later,_ it said when he left the Temple without formally telling anyone and without stopping by his rooms. He doesn’t know if he could, not with Qui-Gon’s lingering presence and – _later,_ it again urges when he thinks of Qui-Gon, the Sith, his presence in the Order, his path in the Light or the supercilious air of the Council. _Later, later, later._  
  
He takes another careful breath (in, out) paired with another measured step forward (match pace, don’t stutter step). While he doesn’t know where he’s leading Anakin, the two do have options. Naboo would probably welcome them back with open arms without asking questions, and surely Satine – long as it’s been – would understand if he sought refuge on Mandalore. Either is a viable choice, but first he has to follow the pull in the Force that drags him back towards the Outer Rim. It’s with practiced self-control that he doesn’t accidentally tighten his grip on Anakin’s shoulder in tension with a sudden thought that comes over him: how can he trust his perception of where the Force is directing him if the Council doubts his own grasp on it? No, training Anakin is the will of the Force, not just Qui-Gon’s final and desperate plea. He can feel the raw strength in the boy, it would be irresponsible to let that go unchecked. Just because Obi-Wan’s path now lies outside of the Jedi Order does not mean that it is not rooted in the Light. He’ll meditate on the philosophy of it all later. There it is again, that _later_.  
  
He can’t fault his master – the word former rattles around somewhere in the back of his mind, followed by yet another _later_ that he doesn’t even have to process in full – for leaving Shmi Skywalker behind. It would be unfair of Obi-Wan to do so; he wasn’t in Mos Espa, he didn’t get to experience the toydarian’s less than hospitable bartering himself. If Qui-Gon had insisted that it would have been impossible to free Anakin and Shmi both, then Obi-Wan would have to trust his judgement. It would do no good to linger on misgivings with a dead man, all he can do is move forward. Perhaps, if the Council had decided to grant Anakin a position as an initiate, the nagging would be duller in the back of his mind. Force be with both of them, Obi-Wan is next to creditless and has very few ideas on how to go about the whole situation.  
  
It doesn’t matter now, he supposes. While Obi-Wan refuses to barter for human life as a commodity, he’s sure that he can think of something Watto will be amicable towards that doesn’t involve gambling or wupiupi at all. Just what that is, though, is up for debate but that’s a bigger problem that he’ll sift his way through _later_. None of it matters if he and Anakin cannot first reach Tatooine; getting off this planet will help Obi-Wan think clearer, too, being further away from the burning bright force signatures of old friends and mentors. It didn’t take much critical thought to deduce that there was only one old friend Obi-Wan could turn to in hopes of acquiring a cheap lift to Tatooine with minimal questions asked.  
  
It’s past lunch hours, so he has high hopes that Dex’s won’t be swamped and he won’t have to wait an excessive time to talk to him. Usually, the besalisk understands the meaning of discretion, though on occasion requires more details in lieu of credits for his resources which is fine, Obi-Wan can work with that. Dex has enough sense to not share the information Obi-Wan may choose to disclose, as he’s assured the Jedi before. If the information broker likes to keep some things to himself to aid only in his understanding of galactic happenings, then that’s his business.  
  
Obi-Wan doesn’t pause at the doors at all, pushing Anakin slightly in front of him and into the Diner before him. Thankfully, his previous assumption was correct; there are only a few people still around, a sullustan actively arguing with FLO over the counter and a gotal seemingly preoccupied with whatever is on his datapad. In the far corner is a human in distinct Mandalorian armor staring at Obi-Wan and Anakin over a cup of caf. The man’s eyes drift to Qui-Gon’s saber hilt still by Obi-Wan’s side – and really, he should have returned it to the Temple, he had meant to return it to the Temple – before his expression shifts marginally and he goes back to his drink. So not a New Mandalorian, though the armor gave itself gives that away.  
  
“Obi-Wan!” He’s broken out of his thoughts by Dex strolling out of the kitchen and wrapping all of his arms around him without permission, squeezing tight and lifting Obi-Wan off the ground minutely before setting him back down. The grip is not released.  
  
“Hello, Dex,” Obi-Wan manages, trying to sound as nonplussed and even keeled as possible, despite all of the _laters_ swimming around in his brain and his lungs being crushed. The besalisk, for what it’s worth, doesn’t comment on Obi-Wan’s less than enthusiastic greeting, instead breaking away from the stifling embrace to look down at Skywalker.  
  
“And you brought a friend!” Dex laughs good-naturedly, tilting his head in the direction of the boy. Anakin stands a little straighter.  
  
“I’m Anakin Skywalker, and Obi-Wan says that you can help us.” He states with more conviction than necessary and all the charm of a nine-year-old who just won a major podracing tournament rather than one who was just rejected from the Jedi Temple. It’s the first thing he’s said since they reached CoCo Town, probably due to a combination of his own stresses and picking up on some of Obi-Wan’s. A pang of guilt hits him, he was trying to be careful, but perhaps everything has started to pile up a little more than he had realized.  
  
“Ah! Does he now? Well I’ll see what I can do! Here, have a seat, have a seat,” He gestures with one of his hands to the booth two in front of the Mandalorian and behind the gotal. The less anyone here overhears, the better.  
  
“Actually, old friend, I –” Dex nods in understanding, cutting him off before he can reveal any more information with an easy smile and an accent of sharp laughter.  
  
“Of course! I did promise that I would show you that ledger, didn’t I? Both of you follow me, I’m sure little Skywalker is interested, as well.” It’s a blatant lie, one that Obi-Wan strongly doubts anyone in the establishment believes for a second, but he’s thankful for it nonetheless as he follows Dex back into the kitchen and then to another, smaller room which – is that a heavy blast rifle against the wall? Obi-Wan quickly shakes the thought away as Dex closes the door. It’s none of his concern.  
  
“Jedi business?” Dex guesses, and Obi-Wan takes a moment before brining himself to shake his head.  
  
“I’m afraid not,” He manages to say, prompting a curious hum from Dex and a silent explanation. It would probably have to get out at some point during this conversation, he might as well get it over with. “I’ve parted ways with the Order, as fate would have it. This is a personal request.” He explains.  
  
“Ah I see.” Dex looks perplexed for a moment, or maybe concerned – but that wouldn’t be right. Dex is hardly what Obi-Wan would classify as a particularly flappable person. He probably has questions that he wants to ask and that Obi-Wan desperately doesn’t want to answer. He still needs time to figure out the situation himself, let alone try to explain it to Dex. “You look tired, Obi-Wan,” is what he concludes with, instead.  
  
“I…” He starts, but finds he has nothing to say. He blinks down at the dirty floor and focuses instead on thinking of possible alternatives to what the dried substance that looks suspiciously like blood could possibly be.  
  
Dex isn’t one for worrying, and while Obi-Wan could relay a decent summary of events with a delicate balance of truth and non-answers, he would prefer to keep discussion about Naboo and his recent departure from the Order as far away from the diner as possible.  
  
“Is this related to the Naboo, by chance?” Dex asks instead of waiting and longer. Obi-Wan nearly chokes on his own breath and tries to recover quickly. Anakin goes rigid in response. Well, there goes that hope.  
  
“You know about Naboo?” He asks, trying to track where and when Dex could have found the information that connects Obi-Wan to the invasion.  
  
“I know about the allegations the Queen made against the Trade Federation in Senate and I’ve heard of Jedi involvement encouraged by the chancellor – well, former chancellor. I have HoloNet access,” He answers with an acceptable degree of comedic intent laced in the cadence of the words.  
  
“Well, yes, I never once doubted your skill at acquiring information that you’re looking for. I would think it’s rather presumptuous even for you to make the leap from Jedi involvement to my own, though…” He trails off, trying to quickly catch a train of thought that he can work with. He trusts Dex, true, but only when the other is not in control of the conversation.  
  
“I have my ways,” Dex explains, ever cryptic. “Well, how can I help you and your friend here?” Obi-Wan finds that he has never been quite as grateful for a well-placed segue.  
  
“We’re trying to get to Tatooine!” Anakin answers for him, and as predicted Dex goes into a brief fit of laughter. The boy looks up at Obi-Wan in confusion. “Why is that funny?” He asks.  
  
“The boy’s mother is still there in less than ideal circumstances,” Obi-Wan elaborates instead of answering Anakin’s fair question. Dex nods along in thought. “Unfortunately, without the assistance of the Order, we have very little funding to go off of. We were hoping you might know of someone headed that way who would be willing to take in two strangers.”  
  
“I know better than to question your methods, Kenobi. But you’re in luck, an old friend,” and Obi-Wan doesn’t like the way that the relation is emphasized one bit, “was headed out as soon as he can. I don’t know if he’ll be open to helping the likes of you, but given current circumstances,” He laughs, and Obi-Wan finds himself asking the same question Anakin had moments earlier, unable to find the humor in that particular statement.  
  
“Thank you, Dex, we appreciate even the possibility. Do you have a comm ID or–” Dex waves away the comment before he can finish.  
  
“No need. He’s the bounty hunter out front.” and oh, now Obi-Wan sees the humor in the previous comment. Anakin looks up at him expectantly and all Obi-Wan can think to do is give a short nod in Dex’s direction, mimicking a lazy bow of sorts. That draws a laugh from the besalisk again, who merely ruffles one hand through Anakin’s hair while smacking Obi-Wan’s shoulder with more force than strictly necessary. He keeps laughing as he makes his way back into the kitchen.

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan turns his attention back to Skywalker, gathering the courage to step out of the small room. This might be their best option at the moment, but it doesn’t hurt to be overly cautious about approaching an unnamed and borderline brooding maybe-Mandalorian-definitely-bounty-hunter in the corner. Just because Dex thinks the man possibly open to offering two strangers a ride to the Outer Rim does not mean he trusts the man. The less information that the two of them are able to divulge to the stranger, the better. If the ever-growing bad feeling blooming in the back of Obi-Wan’s mind is correct as he fears, though, then there’s little chance that indulging in conversation will do much good.  
  
“You’re nervous?” Anakin both observes and questions before Obi-Wan can say anything himself. He forces another breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Perhaps Dex had reason to comment on the status of Kenobi’s exhaustion, it tugs so powerfully at every nerve that he has to take stock of his senses. When was the last time he slept? Before the initial negotiations process with the Trade Federation, he had been kept up by a suspended tension in the Unifying Force. He’d fallen into a routine of uneasy meditation, the depth of which certainly not improving when the bond between he and Qui-Gon and been unceremoniously broken. Sleep proper, though… he knew that he had caught a few hours here and there on Tatooine, at the very least, but between waiting for transmissions from his master and calming the handmaidens, not to mention the overwhelming darkness he had felt, he isn’t sure if he had a full night. He’ll rest later, once he and Anakin are moving.  
  
_Later._ With that thought, he reinforces the mortar of his shields abruptly, offering as a warm a smile as he can to the boy. It does neither of them any good for him to be tense.  
  
“No,” He lies easily, because _there is no emotion, there is peace._ Just because he left the Order does not mean that he is not still a Jedi, heart and soul. “But we must be very careful with what we choose to share, Anakin. Not everyone in the galaxy is fond of the Jedi.” He elaborates in hopes of explaining whatever emotion Anakin had picked up from him. Skywalker nods, wearing an expression far too serious for a nine-year-old and clearly absorbing every word.  
  
“Sometimes, people would come into the shop and Mom would say that it was better for me to be quiet. Is this like that, Obi-Wan?” He asks, and Obi-Wan does not tense at the comment or the implications, nor does he feel a flare of renewed motivation to retrieve the boy’s mother. His mind starts unhelpfully supplying potential circumstances that would lead to Shmi to deliver that warning, none of which particularly palatable.  
  
“Just for now, Anakin. I’m sorry,” The apology feels empty, the words falling off his tongue while he’s still busy contemplating the former sentiment. He’ll talk to Anakin about his past and speaking up for himself and how he should never be afraid or ashamed to interact with others later. Obi-Wan can only guess that Anakin uses talking as a direct way to understand his surroundings and process his experiences, taking that away from him feels unfair. Still, Anakin nods dutifully with that still t00 serious look in his eye, bouncing ever so slightly in time with the gesture of acknowledgement.  
  
“That’s okay, honest! I’m good at it, you don’t have to worry.” Obi-Wan doesn’t have the heart to tell him that his ability to avoid conversation isn’t even on the list of possible concerns at present. He’s sure that he has been in situations far more precarious than needing to rely on the hypothetical goodness in a strange bounty hunter’s heart, but he can’t seem to think of any. Potential Sith Lords and civil wars, evidently, do not take precedence to sleep-deprived attempted hitchhiking with a potential ward.  
  
“I appreciate your bravery,” He says needlessly, though Anakin seems to brighten at the comment. Obi-Wan extends a hand for the boy to take, just for the short distance back to the diner proper, finally feeling like his thoughts are in order enough to stand make a decent proposal to the stranger. Anakin takes the hand, squeezing it slightly in an effort obviously meant to reassure both him and Kenobi. Obi-Wan sighs. If this is really what Dex thought was the most accessible option. Besides, if they wait any longer, they may end up squandering the lead, marginal as it may be. Cups of caf don’t last forever, after all.  
  
The gotal is still in their previous location but the sullustan has officially left, leaving FLO to do her job. Starting this conversation is not about to be enjoyable, and he can only hope that Dex said at least something to the bounty hunter to give him adequate warning. Obi-wan can count on one hand the amount of bounty hunters who would respond well to just being approached with no preface – the numbers restricted to those who don’t last particularly long in their field of employ.  
  
True to character, this particular hunter simply raises an eyebrow, incredulous, at both Anakin and Obi-Wan when it’s clear that they’re approaching.  
  
“A mutual friend says you’re headed off planet soon,” Obi-Wan says before he can overthink a potential conversation starter as soon as they reach an acceptable distance from the table. The hunter only has a cup of caf with him and an empty plate, though Obi-Wan is sure that the caf has gone cold by now.  
  
“Perhaps that mutual friend should mind his own business.” His head tilts as he says it, some degree of expectancy in the words. Obi-Wan breathes deeply, channeling his Qui-Gon Jinn level of contradictory impertinent professionalism as best as he can.  
  
“Perhaps,” He responds evenly, voice adequately stable, “Forgive the intrusion, we were just led to believe that you may be willing to offer transportation,”  
  
“Public transit works just fine last I checked, Jedi,”  
  
“I’m not,” He can’t get himself to finish the statement. There could be a benefit in telling the stranger that he’s no longer affiliated with the Order but that doesn’t mean he’s not still reluctant to divulge that information for the purpose of his own fragile sanity. The bounty hunter gives him a critical look over.  
  
“Oh? You certainly look the part of a half-baked Jedi.” Obi-Wan grits his teeth. Qui-Gon was right, he is headstrong, he should be able to maintain his calm better than this.  
  
“And you certainly look the part of a brooding Mandalorian,” He bites out before he can catch himself. He’s normally much better at holding his tongue, but if anything, the man seems to ease up under his commentary.  
  
“Maybe I killed one and stole the armor.” Obi-Wan doesn’t miss the way Anakin stiffens at the comment, his grip tightening on Obi-Wan’s hand. Frankly, given the current state of Mandalorian politics, that actually seems to be the more likely of answers. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what it means that it settles his nerves. The bounty hunter maintains his stare with Kenobi, and for some reason he’s acutely aware that if he breaks first, there will be no chance of following this lead. Bounty hunters are an eccentric breed, but their proclivities all revolve around the same two things: respect and competence. If, for whatever reason, refusing to back down is what earns him a fraction of respect, then it is well worth the discomfort and peculiarity.  
  
“We’re just looking to reunite with his mother,” Obi-Wan elaborates, nodding in Anakin’s direction. He’s about to break his stare – intimidation tactic or not, there is no part about it that makes this a natural seeming conversation – but the hunter does so first, looking to Skywalker for a brief moment.  
  
“Where would that destination be?”  
  
“Tatooine.” Obi-Wan admits. It looks like the man might laugh, or scoff, or something, but instead he just raises his eyebrows with the same degree of cynical resignation as before.  
  
“Tatooine?” He repeats after a second. Obi-Wan nods, Anakin’s tighter hold on his hand not going unnoticed. He squeezes back in affirmation. The bounty hunter shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Sit down.” A beskar-clad hand gestures to the other side of the booth. Obi-Wan looks to Anakin and nudges him to the side to follow the instruction.  
  
“Might I ask your name?” Obi-Wan attempts. If they’re having this conversation in earnest, then he ought to know who it is exactly that they’re discussing this with.  
  
“You might.” Is the curt response. Obi-Wan blinks in disbelief.  
  
The bounty hunter turns his attention to Anakin, never one to shrink from attention, who perks up and returns the eye contact. The boy grew up in the Outer Rim, having spent time under Gardulla the Hutt and then dealing with the likes of whoever passed through Watto’s, of course he wouldn’t be easily intimidated by some strange bounty hunter. He’s probably had enough passing interaction with seedy folk to last a lifetime. The stranger asks something in rapid Huttese, clearly directed towards Anakin alone, and Obi-Wan finds himself wishing that he had spent more time actively trying to learn the language when he had the chance. Anakin’s knowledge of Huttese, he supposes, would not be a hard conclusion to come to based upon the information that they’ve shared; looking for his mother on Tatooine assumes that Anakin himself is from the planet. It would take a fool to live in Hutt-space and not learn the language.  
  
Anakin nods quickly in response, uncharacteristically refraining from speaking in return. Apparently, he had been quite serious when he informed Obi-Wan that he was good at remaining silent. It doesn’t help Obi-Wan feel better about the situation that they’ve found themselves in. The bounty hunter doesn’t seem content just yet though and asks the poor boy a few more questions. Anakin nods enthusiastically, this time emphasizing whatever it is that he was answering with a verbal response. The quick yes that he threw out in the language is followed by quick desertion of silence with the beginnings of some colorful story – Anakin’s face lights up when the rambling begins in that already familiar way – that the bounty hunter nods along with. Obi-Wan doesn’t dare interrupt, despite knowing that there’s no way that Anakin knows how to adequately deliver selective truths or parse what exactly is best to be maintained as private information. Whatever it is that Skywalker has decided to divulge makes the hunter’s expression relax into an easy half-smile. Obi-Wan awaits a verdict or continuation of conversation with bated breath.  
  
“Jango Fett,” The introduction comes suddenly and a moment after Anakin stops talking. Obi-Wan recognizes it as what it is: a peace offering of sorts, just as the invitation to sit down had been. _What exactly did Skywalker say?_  
  
“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” He offers in return, accepting the give and take for what it is. Fett nods in recognition, but quickly turns his attention back to Anakin.  
  
“And you’re Anakin Skywalker, right?” He asks. He must have overheard them with Dex. It probably wasn’t particularly hard, given that he would have only had to listen past one other conversation. “Hm.” Fett eloquently concludes the sentiment with.  
  
“Unfortunately, we don’t have much in means of compensation,” Obi-Wan drops, if it hadn’t already been obvious or Anakin neglected to mention that piece of vaguely critical information.  
  
“I’m a really good mechanic. If you have anything you need fixed up–”  
  
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan cuts him off, and the confusion on the boy’s face makes him realize that Skywalker probably doesn’t understand just why a child immediately leaping to that conclusion could be considered mildly upsetting. “You shouldn’t need to barter your skills,” He explains, recollecting that his master had insisted he do just that. Well, that’s something that he’ll pick up the pieces of later. _Later._  
  
“But I’m good at fixing, I wouldn’t mind.” Obi-Wan is aware of Fett’s intense stare on both of them as the quick aside seems to bubble into a possible argument. Qui-Gon would know what to say. Though to be fair, Qui-Gon would also probably approve of Anakin’s offer, having no qualms relying on the skill of a nine-year-old.  
  
“Yes, and you’re very talented, but you’re also a child. Let me handle this,”  
  
“But–”  
  
“ _Anakin_.” Obi-Wan urges, shooting him a look he hopes successfully conveys that they can talk about this later. He bites back a groan, later becoming a much more daunting prospect on the horizon of his mental capacity.  
  
Fett takes a moment to look between the two of them, as if weighing his options or perhaps measuring their worth, before promptly downing the rest of his caf. He nods to himself, apparently coming to some conclusion.  
  
“We’ll take Corellian Run. It’ll get you to Tatooine fast enough, provided we don’t run into trouble.” He stands with no preamble, and Obi-Wan is much too busy trying to perceive what trouble he could possibly mean to try to figure out how, exactly, this worked. Dex has never given him a bad lead before, but surely even he would be a little a little surprised at this entire interaction. “Well?” Fett asks expectantly.  
  
“Now?” Obi-Wan questions in return dumbly, chalking it up to sleep deprivation and forgiving himself for the painful social stumble. Not that Jango Fett seems to be a particularly socially adept individual.  
  
“I believe our _mutual friend_ already informed you of my travel plans. Unless you have business elsewhere, I would prefer to get off this kriffing planet as soon as possible.” For what it’s worth, Anakin doesn’t seem to blink at the expletive.  
  
“Not a fan of Coruscant, then?” Obi-Wan asks, only to receive a harsh glare in return. He’ll take that as a no and an indication to not push his luck.

...  
  
The _Jaster’s Legacy_ is an old gunship whose precise model is unknown to even Anakin Skywalker. That alone concerns Obi-Wan about the voyage without taking into account the potential ulterior motives a complete stranger may have in aiding them in their trip across the galaxy. Anakin is practically vibrating with excitement, formulating questions at an alarming rate and talking a mile a minute with little regard for volume. It draws attention, and Anakin doesn’t seem to notice, but it makes Obi-Wan wary. Their new travel companion has managed to remarkably select one of the few hangars in this sector with lower traffic, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty. Obi-Wan doubts anywhere on Coruscant could ever truly be empty.  
  
The lingering stares feel strangely more threatening than they would under usual circumstances, his nerves prick on edge with every sentient passed. He tries to school his paranoia, Qui-Gon’s voice somewhere in the back of his mind reminding him to focus on the here and now. The here and now, though, just so happens to be completely drowned out by an oppressive sense of dread. Even without the stares he feels like someone is breathing down his neck. Forcing a breath again, he tries to instead focus on the ship once more as they approach in earnest. There isn’t much else to it, just a crest that Obi-Wan can’t even begin to identify.  
  
“Watch your head,” Fett breaks his silence with a degree of bitterness Obi-Wan can only guess comes from having smacked his own one too many times on the hatch.  
  
For all of Anakin is in tune with the Force, he seems to be unaware of the same all-encompassing feeling that Obi-Wan is. If anything, the boy just seems to be content to have someone else who will interact with him when he speaks; granted, Fett is more partial to minute indicators of understanding rather than conversing.  
  
“I like machines, and I’m usually _pretty_ good at ship builds, but it’s bothering me that I can’t figure out what this one is,” He says, looping back on conversation topics as they enter the _Legacy_. Obi-Wan indulges his paranoia one last time, checking to see if anyone is actually tailing them. He must just be high strung from all of the antics these past weeks. From inside, Fett shuts the door and shoots Kenobi a look that he finds himself unable to interpret. “How old is it?” Anakin asks, running a hand along some of the dented siding.  
  
The interior of the ship is about as disparaged as the exterior – though clearly not from lack of trying on Fett’s part, as there’s very little, if any, clutter.  
  
“Don’t know,” Fett answers, which doesn’t seem to discourage Anakin at all.  
  
“Normally, Watto would get suspicious when he heard a gunship of this class was around. He was antsy like that, would refuse service. It’s a bummer, because I really wanted to take a look at the hyperdrive. I haven’t been able to fix a hyperdrive yet,” Anakin trials off, attention fixing on some loose paneling and beginning to half-heartedly finagle with it. Obi-Wan is about to open his mouth to scold him when the bounty hunter asks a question in return.  
  
“What did you normally fix?” It’s an obvious effort to pull Anakin away from the panel and works much more graciously than Obi-Wan’s snapping would have. Fett seems to have already acquired a soft spot for the boy, somehow.  
  
“I _usually_ did basic droid repairs. I didn’t do a lot of ship stuff because we were far enough from the bigger spaceport hangars. I was able to look over some of the spare parts, but if anyone needed help installing the repair, Watto’d have Mom go with them. They’d have to wait for after store hours, though. I don’t think they trusted me because I’m so young.” For the first time since meeting him, Obi-Wan clearly reads Fett’s emotions without meaning to. It’s anger, clear as day and potent, but it quells quickly. Anakin’s brows crease, obviously picking up the same emotion, but as quickly as it’s there, it fades. He hums in recognition of the words, posture easy, if on edge based on what Obi-Wan can only assume is learned vigilance.  
  
“That happen a lot?”  
  
“The droid repairs? Yeah. Lots of pit droids, although sometimes we’d get an astromech or protocol. I fixed speeder engines too, but they weren’t as fun. Not nowhere near as cool as making my own podracers from scratch.” Anakin keeps rambling and Jango shoots Obi-Wan an inquisitive look, not that Obi-Wan can do anything but shrug in response. Anakin’s past, and certainly the past of his mother, is a mystery to him.  
  
Jango turns his attention to something on his comms while Anakin starts recounting the process of building his pod in an overwhelming detail. He assumes that the bounty hunter has someone he needs to update on his current trajectory, hence the necessity of revisiting his comms. Obi-Wan finds himself wondering just how far out of the way Fett is going for the two of them. Afterall, Dex had only maintained that he was headed of planet. Obi-Wan is not naïve enough to believe that Jango Fett happened to be headed to Tatooine, as well. Is he postponing a job for them? If so, what is there to be gained from this? It’s too late now, but his train of thought hitches on the question. He needs to remain cautious.  
  
Anakin keeps talking, preening under the vague and seemingly disinterested questions Jango asks. They’re just enough to keep Anakin talking. Fett has apparently quickly come to the same realization that Obi-Wan has. So long as Anakin keeps talking, he keeps his hands to himself. On a ship so close to falling apart, or hiding who knows how many secrets, it’s probably for the best.  
  
Obi-Wan knows better than to look too critically at his surroundings. Years of friendship with Dexter Jettster – frankly, years of apprenticeship under Qui-Gon Jinn – have taught him enough about when to poignantly ignore particular things. _Plausible deniability, Padawan,_ Jinn’s voice echoes in his mind and he instinctively place a hand on Anakin’s shoulder as Jango rummages through a drawer for who knows what. _If we do not know we’re going against our mandate, then there is no reason to report it. It takes all kinds in the Galaxy._ There was a reason the man was known as a maverick in the Order. Considering Dooku’s sudden departure and Qui-Gon’s conflict with the Council, it was only a matter of time before Obi-Wan solidified his position in the disastrous line and deserted the Order, himself. He reaches instinctively towards the training bond in the Force at that thought, only to be harshly reminded of the fraying edges of a connection severed abruptly.  
  
It’s against his will that he intakes a sharp breath and fights the urge to keel over, pressure bursting behind his eyes.  
  
Anakin stops talking, looking up at Kenobi with so much concern in his expression it almost aches. He wonders absently if Anakin can feel the emptiness, too, even after knowing Qui-Gon for such a brief time, or if Obi-Wan is just projecting still. _Later._ Jango looks like he’s analyzing him.  
  
“Do you want to help me run some astronavigation calculations, Skywalker?” He asks instead of mentioning the stab of pain that obviously visibly cut through Obi-Wan. There’s nothing quite like the discretion of a bounty hunter.  
  
“I’ve never tried to do that before! I’ve only seen it automated. Doesn’t it take a lot of time to do it by hand?” He asks, and considering Fett’s grumpy disposition, he certainly goes to great lengths to appease Anakin. Though in this instance, it becomes clear that it’s for Obi-Wan’s benefit, not Anakin’s. He doesn’t know what to make of that.  
  
“Not if you’re good at it. Always better to do it yourself, just in case.” Fett elaborates. So, another particular bounty hunter idiosyncrasy. It’s not unheard of for people to trust their own calculations more than a machine-run analysis, though Obi-Wan can’t say that he’s yet to meet someone with the same proclivity. Fett makes a point of maintaining eye contact with him. If he were more awake, or more present in general, he might be able to know what the other man is trying to communicate. As it is, the more time he’s spent standing aimlessly in the hull of the ship, the more aware he becomes of just how tired his body feels.  
  
Apparently, it’s become abundantly clear to the other that Obi-Wan is not catching the message. Fett sighs.  
  
“Head on up to the cockpit,” He says, nodding in the general direction of the said location. Anakin practically beams, but immediately looks up at Obi-Wan expectantly. This unspoken question reads loud and clear.  
  
“Go on,” He encourages. If Fett is offering, then he might as well let Anakin live out his piloting dreams with adult supervision. Though, perhaps, anyone who has taken it upon themselves to kill a Mandalorian and decide to take the armor as a trophy may not be a person apt to supervise an adrenaline loving nine-year-old.  
  
Obi-Wan moves to follow as Anakin, but his shoulder is caught in firmly in place by the bounty hunter who stares him down with an oddly less critical eye than before.  
  
“ _You_ should get some rest. There are three spare rooms, just choose one.”  
  
“Anakin–” As soon as the name slips out of his mouth, Jango’s stare turns cold again, like he’s regretting this decision already.  
  
“I can watch the kid. I’ll get you two to Tatooine, you have my word.” Obi-Wan wants to contest, be contrarian and assert that Jango Fett’s word means close to nothing to all parties involved. If he sleeps now, then who knows what the bounty hunter may do. Obi-Wan’s been on far too many missions that go awry to trust an offer like that. He opens his mouth to retort, posture rigid, and Jango finally removes his grip to wave off whatever he thinks Kenobi was going to say.  
  
“Frankly kid,” Fett starts, and if Obi-Wan hadn’t just been steamrolled he would feel more inclined to gripe about being referred to as a kid, “You look like you were kicked off a two-story building.”  
  
“I–that…actually may be a bit on the nose,” Kenobi admits, suddenly remembering the pain in his chest from getting kicked off a handful of platforms by the Sith assassin. He hopes that the Council will figure that whole situation out, at least. It isn’t his responsibility anymore, not technically, but he hates the uncertainty surrounding it. There’s little chance that he’ll know now, despite the resurgence of the Sith impacting everyone and not just the Jedi. Another wave of brief panic washes over him and he draws a sharp breath through his teeth; the echo of pain from reaching out to someone no longer there lingers more presently than it ought to. _Later_ thrums in his head with greater intensity, turning from a soft mantra to a shriek that rings in his ears and makes him want to rip out his hair. He tries to swallow down the thought. It would hardly be a professional display.  
  
“Do you… need anything?” Fett asks instead, squinting in his direction. The words sound forced, like he doesn’t know why he’s asking them at all. Obi-Wan can’t fault him for that, he finds himself confused at the question. Pain still pulses at the base of his skull and radiates behind his eyes. A testament to how sleep deprived he is that he can’t separate which sensation is coming from where. Obi-Wan’s mouth feels dry all of the sudden, a too long blink weighing on him far more than it should. He thinks about the question and swallows his pride. Anakin has already proven that he can read Obi-Wan with a discerning amount of accuracy, and if he can’t get his thoughts in order it will by the boy who suffers.  
  
“If you really don’t mind keeping an eye on Anakin,” He trails off. Fett nods, then points off the direction of one of the halls in the ship.  
  
“Go ahead and claim the first on the left.” He says, before leaving Obi-Wan standing there. It’s a lot of faith to place in someone. Kenobi knows perfectly well that he could wander and snoop, and if he thinks about that then certainly Fett has, as well. For the time in hyperspace to be manageable at all, they’re going to have to have some degree of trust. This is another barter: Obi-Wan is trusting Fett with Anakin, and Fett is trusting Obi-Wan with his personal space. He still doesn’t know what Jango figures he’ll be gaining out of this situation.  
  
“You know, I’ve been to three planets!” Obi-Wan hears Anakin exclaim from the cockpit with far too much excitement.  
  
“Three, huh? Which ones?” Is the far quieter response; Obi-Wan has to strain to hear it. It’s a completely different timbre than what Jango had addressed him with, and despite the circumstances, Obi-Wan can’t find it in him to think that Jango Fett would hurt the child. With that train of thought, he glances in the direction Jango advised him.  
  
He doesn’t stick around to hear Anakin’s answer, following Fett’s vague directions to be greeted with a small standard cabin. Without really thinking, he sits on the bed and ignores turning on the light. Obi-Wan clutches his chest to ground himself, feeling his own rapid heartbeat and uncontrolled breathing. The dark of the room is a welcome comfort, he hadn’t realized how painful the artificial light that bathed everything on Coruscant was. A light meditative trance would be better than sleep, at least that way he could hear if Anakin needed anything. His grip tightens on his tunics. Something doesn’t feel right, and while it isn’t quite later yet, he can’t ignore the feeling of being observed. There’s literally no way that someone trailed him onto the _Legacy_ without Anakin picking up on it or Jango Fett’s already clear paranoia picking up on it. So why does he feel like a cornered animal?  
  
He had thought it would let up on Coruscant, but if anything, it’s only intensified. There’s no way to know if he’s made the right choice, all that he can do is listen to the steady hum of the Force that presses into his senses. Leaving the Order was necessary, he would not have – _could_ not have – deserted Anakin. Things had been going smoothly enough for him, especially considering Jango Fett. If he were stronger in the Living Force, he would probably be satisfied; he would be mindful of the present enough to not let the concern of some phantom menace make him reluctant to thank the Force for the good fortune both he and Skywalker have received.  
  
No. He isn’t imagining the overwhelming sense of dread. The Sith may be a new sensation to him, but it started the moment they became involved. Jango Fett feels uncertain in the Force, though not hostile. Maybe in another time, in another place, but onboard his ship with a child Kenobi realizes that he feels calm. If he had waited to flesh out the specifics of his departure with the Council, there’s a good chance that they might have convinced him to stay. His friends would have had higher odds.  
  
Qui-Gon would know what to do. He was always particularly adept at improvising when he followed his instincts in the Living Force. Qui-Gon isn’t here. Qui-Gon is dead because Obi-Wan was a fool who, as a _complete stranger_ pointed out, was kicked down and was too slow to recover. He allows himself to wallow for a moment, to let the guilt well up in his chest and threaten to burst, and then releases as much of it will leave into the Force.  
  
Perhaps meditation alone won’t cut it tonight. He lays down on the bed, tries to release his tension into the Force or at the very least, relax the muscles in his face. When they do get to Tatooine, how is he supposed to go about freeing Shmi? And after that, if the Skywalker’s decide that Obi-Wan is not wanted, that Anakin should not be trained by him in the Force, where is he to go? He feels more adrift and uncertain than he has in…well Melida/Daan was twelve years ago, now. Has he really lived half a life since then? His thoughts must really be swimming to get him to think about _that._ Alone in the small room, he groans at the ceiling and runs a hand over his face. After he rests, he should feel more equipped to handle everything, that’s when he can truly unpack everything that he’s tucked away for later. His thoughts are reeling still when he closes his eyes.  
  
The sleep that greets him is not gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr at rejectedbard.tumblr.com! 
> 
> Also: a big shoutout to my lovely sisters for indulging my unending obsession with Jango Fett
> 
> (and finally, because it's bothering me, a disclaimer that I know Jango's armor isn't technically beskar and I've just decided to ignore it)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is decidedly shorter than the previous, and future chapters will probably be closer to this than that behemoth. 
> 
> tw for a brief depiction of an anxiety attack/traumatic flashback (character witnesses, does not experience)

Jango hates Coruscant.  
  
Every time he’s on the blasted planet, something unexpected happens that sets his projects back a week, at least. He very well avoids the planet as best he can, but longer hunts always tend to pull him back into its orbit like some unsuspecting space junk. It’s predictable, really, but normally the setbacks occur while he’s doing something vaguely reckless like investigating laced death sticks or killing senators in the second degree, not post-semi-poor decisions whilst trying to enjoy a cup of caf before heading off world. Jango has to be one of the only sentients who wanders into Dex’s for the purpose of dining alone, and yet somehow that dammed besalisk has found it fit to share the minimal details Jango does choose to disclose with a complete stranger.  
  
He’s supposed to be headed towards Oovo IV, the complete opposite direction and along the Hydian, but now he’s wasting hard-earned credits on fuel to head to Tatooine. Next time he’ll skip the caf and use his own instant mix onboard. Jango isn’t particularly familiar with Tatooine. He’s managed to avoid the planet as well as most people ought to, frankly, and can only recall purposefully winding up on the dustball once way back in the day. A busted engine en route to Ryloth spat him out into some dump spaceport town – Mos Eisley, he remembers, because everyone in the shithole made sure he knew it – before he could continue onward. It was by no means what he would call a purposeful or enjoyable stop.  
  
Well. At least it isn’t Nal Hutta.  
  
If Jango were worth half his reputation, he would have laughed in the baby Jedi’s face at the ridiculous request. Getting hauled clean across the galaxy no questions asked and no credits given is _impossible_. But, then, Jango just made it possible. If Kenobi hadn’t left the Order mere hours before and looked skittish as a man on the run, Jango wouldn’t have indulged conversation at all. Then again, if Anakin hadn’t been by his side, Jango wouldn’t have given the Jedi the chance to explain even that. Desperation on a nine-year-old boy can compel Jango to apparently concede to impossible things. Curse his bleeding heart.  
  
It’s probably for the best. Abandoning the Bando Gora hunt isn’t particularly ideal, especially not after he’s done so much legwork, but he _did_ just kill Senator Trell. That alone should be enough incentive for Jango to lay low. Trying his hand at a risky prison break doesn’t exactly fit the criteria for that. Let Montross inevitably take on the Bando Gora and take Tyranus’s inordinate amount of credits; jobs that pay that well tend to be more than they’re worth, anyways, and Jango would prefer not to dig up the hitch himself. He’ll catch news down the line of some inane circumstance revolving around the drug ring and be glad this came up. That’s how it usually works. He has enough coast for a bit and taking a kid and his paranoid and directionless ex-Jedi friend to Tatooine will be his one altruistic deed of the standard year.  
  
Spending the better portion of three hours listening to Anakin talk on and off again about tales from Tatooine and Naboo both did very little to convince Jango that he made the wrong decision, either. He’s lucky Jaster kicked it ages ago, lest the old man harass him endlessly about how readily Jango kept Skywalker talking. He’s gone soft. The kid is ridiculously bright and endlessly comedic, though at the tender age of nine it’s doubtful it’s intentional, and while Jango stands by his decision in encouraging Kenobi to sleep – frankly, more so now after hearing an abridged version of the Naboo Crisis – he almost wishes that he could have someone with a fully developed prefrontal cortex to answer his new questions. Anakin can only offer so much insight without it sounding like Jango’s interrogating him.  
  
Anakin was far too excited for just learning simple flight path navigations, but he was able to run numbers quickly – offering an anecdote about quick arithmetic and how he started asking traveling pilots who stopped by to teach him new tricks when Jango complimented him on the proficiency – and instead shifted his attention to other topics of conversation as soon as they took off. After listening to Anakin talk about Sith assassins and kind (if reckless) Jedi and pretty queens, the steady stream of storytelling winded down until Jango had looked over and seen he had fallen asleep. It wasn’t surprising, not considering the week that he’d just been told of. What _did_ surprise Jango was when he suddenly found himself smiling at the boy slumped over in the copilot’s seat. He waits a little bit to see if Anakin would wake up before double checking the _Legacy’s_ autopilot flight path in hyper and resigning himself to getting the kid to bed.  
  
“’S cold,” Anakin mumbles, still more asleep than awake, when Jango sets him down on the bed in the empty cabin.  
  
“I bet,” He responds absently, pulling the thin covers over him. The transition from a desert planet with two suns to space is probably not the smoothest of endeavors, and Jango moves to scavenge up some more blankets for him. He’s definitely gone soft.  
  
It doesn’t take long for him to dig up more blankets for Anakin; he doesn’t have spares, but he nicks the one from the only empty cabin and the other from his own. If Kenobi’s paranoia has any merit, then Jango probably won’t be sleeping any time soon, anyways. He spares one last glance at Anakin after arranging the new blankets and heads towards the kitchen to fetch a cup of caf. He might as well commit to remaining awake in case any trouble arises. It’s an interesting turn of events that has him – not trusting, trusting would give far too much credit – non-apprehensive of the former Jedi on board. Yet, as often as he tries to circle back on his logic, he can’t. Anakin is a child, Anakin was turned away from the Jedi Order (though honestly, what’s one form of slavery for another?), but Kenobi is looking out for him, ex-Jedi or not.  
  
Jango pauses outside the room his other unlikely travel companion claimed. Sound doesn’t travel easily onboard, not necessarily, though normally no one else is present to test that claim. Kenobi is muttering to himself, though, in an unintelligible and frantic string of Basic and…Jango can’t even place the origin of the other words, the way their slurred together in what he can only assume is either sleep or panic. If Force crap ruins his ship on a stupid milk run, he’ll lose his mind. He knocks tentatively before he can stop himself or really think about it too intently. Jango doesn’t want to find out what damage a Force user is capable of inflicting on his ship when they’re as shaken as Kenobi is. There’s no answer to the knock and considering everything that Anakin shared with him earlier that can’t mean anything good.  
  
He opens the door with a souring expression, careful to remain a step away from the threshold as to not completely breech the privacy of the near stranger.  
  
“Kenobi?” He asks into the way too dark room, but the answer he receives is just cessation of the Jedi’s conversation with himself. He takes a couple wary steps further into the space. “Hello?” He probes further, only to be met with silence. Jango sighs and rolls his eyes, moving to turn back to his original mission of ingesting caffeine. It’s none of his business, anyways.  
  
He turns quickly as the room ignites in an unnatural shade of green and every nerve in his body goes on edge as the telltale hum of a lightsaber fills the small space. The blade is dangerously close to his neck, and had he moved a fraction of a step further forward it would have made contact. Jango forcibly pushes down the immediate instinct to fight back and disarm, turning his attention from the saber to the wielder and maintaining a careful calm. It doesn’t feel right. He’s certainly never hesitated before – though he’s nearly sure that the same could not be said about Obi-Wan Kenobi – and it would be easy to deescalate the situation, but Kenobi looks distant and vacant. Jango stays still, doesn’t so much as breathe, as he stares down Kenobi and gives him a second to come to. Afterall, Jango did just wander into the space the other was, presumptively, asleep in. He would be on edge, too. More so, though, he recognizes the look in Kenobi’s eyes all too well. They aren’t in the same room right now, at all, though Jango can’t begin to guess whatever the other is wading through.  
  
The second the lightsaber deactivates, the kid has gone pale as a ghost, hands shaking. He looks manic, his eyes focused on something not quite there and panic written all over his expression. Kenobi practically throws the clunky hilt away from him, landing somewhere with a metallic thud, and stares at his own trembling palms warily. It looks like he’s going to choke something out, but before he can he’s dry heaving and running to the small ‘fresher adjoined to the room. Jango stands there, unsure of what to do. He would hate for a stranger to see _him_ like this, so he just turns back to his initial goal and pretends not to know that he’s just witnessed a no doubt excruciatingly private display of the Jedi’s past resurfacing violently. Once again, it’s none of his business.  
  
“I’m making some caf,” Jango announces to the room, unsure if Kenobi can hear him. “If you, uh, want any.” He scratches at his head stupidly, trying to quickly measure his options. Out of everyone in the Galaxy, of course these two had to tag along with Jango. He would not consider himself the most qualified man to help anyone deal with any sort of baggage; he can’t even deal with his own. Even if he were getting paid, this would be out of his wheelhouse and definitely not specified within any contract. He should walk away and politely never mention this incident. He takes a deep breath and takes a moment to feel disappointed in himself. “It’s the cheap stuff, fair warning.” Is what he offers instead of any sort of help, carefully pretending that he can’t hear the continued retching from the other room, and quickly departs.  
  
If someone told him a week prior that he would be playing pick up through a hyperspace jump to Tatooine with a freshly excommunicated Jedi and his talkative child companion in toe pro bono, Jango would have told them to shoot him down then and there. He absently pours some of water he just heated over the barely four credits instant caf he’d measured up – one spoon for one cup, more carefully measured than it probably needs to be because every single time it ends up either being too watery or too strong – and contemplates the situation he’s managed to get himself wound up in. He keeps one hand loosely wrapped around the caf-warmed mug while he raps his knuckles aimlessly on the counter and shifts his weight from his right to left foot, taking stock of what he knows about the situation.  
  
Anakin’s told him more than a fair amount, but nothing that is particularly helpful. He would be content in ignoring Kenobi for the whole trip, it would certainly be easier to ignore the sinking traitorous feeling that he’s aiding a Jedi. There is, however, the vaguely concerning matter of Anakin being able to literally feel whatever convoluted pain Kenobi happens to be in at the moment though; he doesn’t understand that at all, and wasn’t about to ask for an explanation, but now he kind of wishes that he had. Jango heaves a deep breath, casually taking a sip of the caf. He sputters a close-mouthed cough despite himself – it really is the cheapest stuff he could find.  
  
It’s of course that moment that Kenobi decides to meander in, somehow looking even more haggard than before. Jango coughs properly like it will get the rest of the taste out of his mouth and he isn’t about to finish the cup as he waits for Kenobi to at least make eye contact with him. Instead, the other looks mildly concerned, jaw clenched and searching the relatively minimal space around him. Luckily, it doesn’t require some mystic sixth sense bullshit for Jango to interpret the expression.  
  
“Talked himself to exhaustion.” He explains in clarification to the unspoken question, bracing himself as he takes another sip of the caf. It tastes like ash, but at least he’s expecting it this time around. Kenobi just nods, continuing to stand awkwardly with palpable tension practically radiating off of him. Jango sighs. This is great, now he gets to play babysitter for an excitable child _and_ a clearly unwell almost-Jedi. “Sit down.” He orders suddenly, and Kenobi’s blank stare is quickly replaced by a rapid succession of disbelieving blinks. He has infinitely more patience for Skywalker than Kenobi, and if the older threatens Anakin’s peace of mind, then Jango will just have to deal with it, whatever that means. Maybe he should have stuck to the Bando Gora.  
  
It takes a moment for the request to register fully, it seems, because after a second Kenobi does actually move to sit at the table in an already uncharacteristic display of silent compliance. Jango, for lack of better things to do, reaches for another chipped and caf-stained mug. He can’t imagine that Kenobi’s crisp Coruscanti upbringing will have a much better time with the caf, but it’ll have to do.  
  
“I meant it when I said it’s crap, but it’s better than nothing,” He says, only just paying attention as he pours the remainder of the hot water and measures out the instant caf mix half-heartedly since clearly measuring it appropriately didn’t do anything.  
  
“I–thank you,” Kenobi stutters out as Jango places the other mug on the table before him and takes a seat across from the kid.  
  
Silence permeates between the two of them, Jango with nothing to say and Kenobi still visibly shaken to the core. He’s doing a decent job masking it, but unfortunately Jango has become quite adept at reading fear. Across the table, he watches as Kenobi takes a tentative sip the caf without flinching. Finally, the Jedi’s eyes briefly meet his, jaw unclenching and taking a tentative breath that can only mean he’s about to speak. He must think better of it, stare drifting to a smudge on the small table putting not nearly enough space between the two of them as Jango would like.  
  
“If you have something to say, then say it.” Jango bites out from behind his own mug, possessing little tolerance for niceties that only seem to draw out the inevitable awkward conversation that the other is bound to pull him into. Obi-Wan nods to himself, sighing as if collecting his thoughts.  
  
“I apologize for earlier,” He says finally, voice hoarse. He clears his throat and promptly sips down more of his drink to combat whatever it is he thinks awaits him. It’s either discomfort or embarrassment that Kenobi is wallowing in, and it strikes some impatient nerve in Jango.  
  
“For trying to decapitate me?” He asks for mock clarification, unable to help himself. The other’s shoulders sag in thinly veiled misery.  
  
“Yes, I suppose that is one way to put it.” Jango tilts his head in recognition of the sentiment. Now that Kenobi is free from the Order, maybe this kid ought to seriously consider going into politics. Jango swears he’s heard deflecting bureaucrats answer his accusations with less pomp than the baby-faced stranger. That brings up another question, though. Jango’s terrible with ages and can’t even begin to guess Obi-Wan’s. If the stupid braid hanging over Kenobi’s shoulder is any indication, then he can’t be old enough to be a Jedi proper, though his composure –when he’s not actively consumed by whatever the hell it is that’s got him so shaky – betrays that. Jango shouldn’t be this curious.  
  
“How old are you, anyways?” He asks, instead of letting it be. Kenobi seems to be taken off guard by the question, which is perfectly fair since even Jango himself isn’t sure why he asked. The other pauses before answering, like divulging the answer might give more than he intends or that there may be some ulterior motive.  
  
“Twenty-five standard.” He answers after the beat, poorly covered skepticism in the tone of the response. Jango admittedly doesn’t know what to do with the information. At twenty-five he was four years into (and over halfway through) his temporary _stay_ with spice traders. It’s not a particular time that he’s inclined to linger on for any duration. He tries to imagine what he would be doing in Kenobi’s position.  
  
“Well, that explains a lot,” is what he answers with instead. And it does. It explains the uncertainty accompanied with an odd sense of composure, the rash selflessness and reliance on the Order, even the naivety to trust a random bounty hunter without any coin lining his pocket.  
  
“I’m sure.” It sounds sincere, but there’s an underlying sharpness that informs Jango it’s sarcasm.  
  
They fall into surprisingly easy quiet before Obi-Wan looks like he’s about to speak again. Jango braces himself for whatever question comes next.  
  
“May I ask why you’re doing this?” Kenobi asks, setting his mug back down with both hands. Jango mirrors the gesture subconsciously, only realizing he has when it would be too awkward to pick it up again. It’s a valid, if intrusive, question.  
  
“Doing what?” He asks, knowing full well what it is that’s being asked. Obi-Wan lets out an elongated and exasperated sigh.  
  
“Helping Anakin and I without having any form of payment.” Kenobi is so sincere in asking that he can’t help but contemplate the question in earnest for a moment. The truth is harmless enough and might help get Kenobi to stop being so antsy, but it certainly doesn’t help his reputation.  
  
“Anakin spoke very highly of you.” It’s not an explanation in full, or at least, does not address the heart of the question he was asked, but he trusts Kenobi can figure out some deeper meaning. He was a resident at the esteemed Jedi Temple for twenty-five years, after all. They study philosophy, Jango thinks, at least. For as amusing as Jango finds his own answer, Kenobi seems less entertained.  
  
“Anakin is nine years old.” He counters.  
  
“Kids don’t lie as readily as some others might,” is Jango’s rebuttal.  
  
“If I’d known that all it took for a bounty hunter to do my bidding was a glowing recommendation from a child, I would have taken advantage of it sooner,” He bites back with a smirk. Skywalker isn’t the only one who eases up when talking, though it seems Kenobi is completely unaware of the trait mirrored in himself.  
  
“Fine. A lapse in judgement, then,” Jango answers sincerely, and the brief amusement in Obi-Wan’s disposition falters as quickly as it emerged. “Anakin shouldn’t have to be without his mother, even if he had been accepted into the kriffing Temple.” He elaborates even more bluntly. The prospect of separating a kid like that makes Jango more perturbed than he would like to admit.  
  
“I take it you aren’t particularly fond of the Jedi,” Kenobi wagers casually.  
  
“Can’t say so.” Jango bites out the understatement of the century briskly, like he hasn’t been referred to as Jedi Killer for the better part of twelve years.  
  
His train of thought halts abruptly when Kenobi goes pale again, stare spacing out and getting that sick look once more. Jango allows himself to analyze the expression for a moment. He’s reminded again of Anakin’s prior musings about Kenobi’s mental state and the occasional spike of pain that reverberates through the Force. It doesn’t take being Force sensitive to pick up on the expression, though. Jango doesn’t need the concept of grief explained to him, and especially not drowning in Force lingo.  
  
“Sorry,” He can hear Kenobi swallow from his place across the table, and Jango can’t be bothered to think of a response to the apology. Instead, he stands and shuffles through a cabinet for something vaguely edible that the kid can keep down. He doesn’t know what he hopes to accomplish, but at this point basic self-care can’t hurt.  
  
“Catch.” Is all the warning he gives before tossing an old ration bar Kenobi’s direction. Obi-Wan looks between Jango and the bar as Jango sits back down. “You should at least try to eat something.” He says in means of explanation.  
  
“Thank you.” He responds, still looking vaguely confused. Jango downs the rest of his caf quickly, huffing a vaguely annoyed breath.  
  
“Is your curiosity satisfied?” He asks, circling back on topics in a half-hearted effort to distract his unfortunate conversation partner enough for him to open the packaging of the bar, at the very least. Kenobi nods, and finally eases into the place across from Jango, still looking like he’s trying to condense himself to take up the smallest amount of space as possible.  
  
Once more, silence settles between the two, less tense than it was just moments prior, despite Kenobi’s fidgeting. Jango sighs, rubbing his neck sorely before conceding to his own stubborn curiosity again.  
  
“Since I’m carting you across the galaxy for free, I think I’m entitled to a few questions of my own,” the kid locks his eyes onto Jango’s, steely and with newfound resolve.  
  
“That’s only fair.” He responds, though his posture informs otherwise.  
  
“Who are you running from?” Jango shoots point blank as soon as the words are out of the other’s mouth.  
  
“Excuse me?” Kenobi nearly sputters out, doing very little to aid his cause if he’s trying to feign innocence.  
  
“I know desperate and on the run when I see it. So, spit it out. Who are you in hot water with?” Desperate enough to take the word of an ex-arms dealer turned diner owner, desperate enough to blindly trust a stranger. How Obi-Wan Kenobi knows Dexter Jettster is beyond Jango, though he supposes it’s like how most people come to meet the besalisk: simple luck, be it for better or worse. Tips from Dex should always be taken with an air of caution, if at all, and typically as a last-ditch effort. Just what it is that could back Kenobi and Skywalker into such a corner, not to mention making Kenobi a twitchy mess, is something Jango would prefer to avoid, if at all possible. Maybe it’s more than Kenobi leaving the Order, maybe something happened that he couldn’t tell Anakin for his own safety. Jango certainly wouldn’t be surprised if the Jedi had it out for a child.  
  
“I don’t know,” He answers, and Jango squints at him critically.  
  
“This will go better for all of us if you fill me in.”  
  
“I’m afraid that I’m quite serious. After we left Tatooine I felt like…” Kenobi trails off, then shakes his head at his own words. “It feels like someone’s watching me. Us.” He quickly corrects. Jango hums. So, he’s a paranoid lunatic.  
  
“That why you left your Order?” He asks, hoping the sore subject is enough to provoke the full truth out of him. Anakin had told Jango about the surface details. Kenobi had given his word to train Anakin, and he had to leave the Order to accomplish that. Looking at the length Obi-Wan would go to protect the boy, though, Jango can only assume that that’s just scratching the surface of the reasoning.  
  
“No.” He blurts out, before he squints down at the table again. “Well, maybe, in part. It’s complicated. I know that it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being followed. Not right now, not since having left Coruscant or even the Jedi Temple, but I don’t like it. I don’t _trust_ it. I don’t… I don’t know why I’m telling you this,”  
  
“Who else do you have to tell?” Jango implicitly reminds him of his self-inflicted isolation unhelpfully, and as expected Obi-Wan’s entire presence shifts again. It’s not like he could divulge this with Anakin; even if the kid were to understand, two panicking people on the run from an unknown enemy are a lot more difficult to wrangle than one. Jango sighs. “I trust people’s instincts, more often than not. You just played a critical role in the Naboo Crisis, from what I heard. If the Sith isn’t miraculously back from the dead,” Kenobi opens his mouth to retort, but Jango waves him off quickly, “Anakin told me everything.” He says in means of explanation. Though to be fair, Anakin’s own understanding was derived from what Kenobi had disclosed to him, and no doubt omitted no small amount of details. “Then the Trade Federation has certainly lost plenty of traction because of everything. If you feel like you’re being tailed, then it’s probably because you are.”  
  
“That’s not exactly comforting,”  
  
“I wasn’t intending it to be.” Jango maintains steady eye contact with Obi-Wan. For the first time since their meeting, Kenobi’s expression falters, flickers from its composed façade into anger – not just mild frustration. “Like it or not, you don’t have the protection of the Order. The boy _definitely_ doesn’t. So, what exactly is your plan here?” Obi-Wan shuts his mouth as soon as he opens it, brows furrowing. That means there is no plan. Jango probably should have foreseen that coming. “Go to Tatooine, then what?” He keeps pushing, because lack of forethought spells disaster in any sector, but especially in Hutt Space. He’ll be dammed if the Skywalkers face the consequences of a self-righteous baby Jedi’s rash behavior.  
  
“The Force will provide a way.” He answers. Of course, why wouldn’t it? Jango watches critically as the younger man is quick to avert his stare, swallowing away the sentiment with a gulp of caf.  
  
“I see.” Jango says, even though it is abundantly clear that he does not, in fact, see. “And so that’s why you left the Temple, because the Force told you to?” He asks, careful to make his sarcasm overt. The notion is absolutely ridiculous, and yet he somehow already knows that the answer will just make him irrationally angry.  
  
“Yes.” Kenobi responds with so much conviction that Jango tries and fails to not roll his eyes. He laughs dryly, the sheer absurdity of this whole situation once again seeping in bone deep. Only he would get himself tied up in this.  
  
“So, you’re just going to take Anakin back to the de facto capital of a planet right after he won one of the largest races there and lost a lot of people a lot of money?” He asks, keeping his expression carefully vacant of any emotion. It doesn’t take surface side sources to know that there are bound to be angry citizens who would jump at the chance of getting some sort of revenge, even if it is against a child. Talk of foul play isn’t difficult to spread, and indicting Anakin when the man who gambled for his freedom is conveniently dead certainly isn't much harder.  
  
“Anakin’s freedom was won within the locals’ own parameters,” Obi-Wan snaps back. Jango stands, collecting both empty caf mugs and dropping them in the sink.  
  
“Just so you know, Kenobi, the hutts will not bat an eye if Skywalker is enslaved again and his mother will be the collateral for anything you try.”  
  
“I wouldn’t let–”  
  
“Do you want to know how much Force users can be traded on the market for?” Jango asks, swerving the conversation harshly. Though truthfully, he doesn’t know the answer, himself. If Kenobi is with Anakin and someone is angry enough about a fortune lost it will be both of them on the line. “This isn’t the Core. Someone would get a hefty amount of coin to pawn you off to some lunatic scientist or collector, and Anakin will not fare any better,”  
  
“I am well aware,” Kenobi nearly seethes through his teeth, and Jango is acutely aware that he might have just hit some unknown nerve too closely.  
  
“But you’re going to blindly wander into a slave trade, well-known and well-televised child in toe, in the name of the Force?” Jango drives home, because if Kenobi wanted to risk himself that would be one thing, but this puts a child’s well-being – and the well-being of his already potentially suffering mother – at stake. Writing off reckless behavior by crediting it to a supernatural entity is the very definition of short-sightedness and exactly what he ought to expect from a Jedi.  
  
Obi-Wan unilaterally decides the conversation is over without dignifying a response, staring up at Jango with such stubborn petulance that he has to question how this is the person that has wound up responsible for Anakin Skywalker.  
  
“Eat the kriffing ration bar and go back to sleep.” Jango orders in little more than a mumble, turning to head up to the cockpit and piecemeal together some sort of plan to help the Skywalkers since Kenobi clearly isn’t going to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to take a moment to remind everyone of Jango's canonical priorities:  
> Acquiring son > being the progenitor of a five million person slave army
> 
> I hope you all forgive me for allowing the man to be soft for a moment, thank you that is all 😂


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I just quickly interject and say that I love you all. Seriously, bless your kind words; they mean the world to me.
> 
> I really told myself that I was going to skip writing this at all and hop straight to Shmi. It turns out I have no idea how _not_ to be long-winded. If I want to spend too many words on a wake up sequence in excruciating detail then I will - something something something **catharsis**.

It takes more effort to fully come to than Obi-Wan is willing to admit. Coming into consciousness feels like he’s been hit with a speeder, or something vaguely reminiscent of waking up after trying to go shot for shot with Garen. With his eyes still closed, he takes a moment to process his surroundings. There is no light fighting against his eyelids, but a soft hum of an engine and the typical chill of deep space. It’s enough to remind his sluggish thoughts of recent events. They crystalize in reverse chronology, fractals of awkward conversation and hot-tempered frustration clicking into place with Dex’s, the Temple, Naboo, and – _promise me you will train the boy_. Promise. He promised, he had promised, he has to–  
  
He bolts up, eyes snapping open as he hunts for his own pulse frantically at his neck. Breathing is a chore, filling his lungs requires deliberate intent as he counts each thudding heartbeat. _One._ The feel of his own heart beneath his fingers focuses him. _Two._ Obi-Wan swallows, eyes adjusting to the dark to see the shadows of the sparse furniture around him. _Three_. A bedside table, the outline of the door to the 'fresher. _Four_. This is the bounty hunter Jango Fett’s vessel, not a plasma refinery complex. He repeats the statement twice more to himself, lips moving soundlessly with the words as they solidify in his mind, so that his stubborn subconscious fully grips the notion. _Five_. Obi-Wan Kenobi is alive and with five whole steady – if too loud and rapid– heartbeats to prove it. They continue on without his counting as his grip falls to his lap by its own accord.  
  
Blood no longer ringing in his ears, the pulse at the base of his skull demands attention. It’s a welcome and familiar sensation in contrast to the pressure that throbbed along his optic nerves previously. He’s used to this pain, can pinpoint a finite origin; exhaustion has always made him more prone to chronic headaches than he would like, but that also means he is used to ignoring them. Obi-Wan rubs a tired hand over his face, whole body protesting as he does so. His expression furrows in frustration, he doesn’t have time to have sore muscles exacerbated by the most marginal of movements. He doubles back on the previous assessment of his physical well-being; it feels like he’s been hit by a speeder, only repeatedly.  
  
It feels annoyingly like Force exhaustion, though he can’t recall having exerted himself too far in recent days. He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, thinking it through. The buzz of the ship’s engine becomes clearer with his feet on the ground. He doesn’t know why the sensation comforts him as much as it does. While the fight against the Sith assassin had certainly taken its toll on him and his practice of Ataru as a swordsman uses no small reserve of his strength, it was not nearly enough to warrant this. The only thing he can isolate about the whole scenario is Qui-Gon. He thinks the name as quietly to himself as possible, concerned that the frayed bond will act up without his permission again. Qui-Gon is one with the Force. Qui-Gon is probably having a much better time than Obi-Wan is at the current moment. He very pointedly does not attempt to reach out across the bond to see if it will fully dissolve, if it ever will. Despite the circumstances, it’s a relief to feel a headache that he associates with overexertion or a particularly nasty hangover. He will graciously accept it over the itch that had pricked just under the surface of his skin, every nerve screaming in cryptic warning.  
  
In fact, now that he thinks about it critically, the foreboding and overwhelming sense of causeless dread has loosened its hold almost entirely. The tightness in his jaw unclenches ever so slightly, his thoughts flitting in and out of focus in a semi-coherent fashion and unobscured by the gibberish warnings that had been so omnipresent before. Obi-Wan hadn’t realized it earlier, probably a testament to his sleepless survival driven autopilot, but he hadn’t been able to feel the Force as strongly as he can now or as he is usually able to. With clearer thoughts, he can deduce that something had been shielding it from him, though just what still eludes him. Having the contented buzz of the Force back in place, he feels more grounded than he has in days. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath – relishing a little too much the way the recycled oxygen fills his lungs and replaces what stale breath he had been holding on to – and allows himself a moment to slip into a light meditative trance. He’s acutely aware that he shouldn’t stretch himself too thin, bearing in mind the familiar feeling of Force exhaustion. Just for a moment, though, he longs to feel the brief but total serenity, not to release any of the pain flickering through his body; it’s more of a nuisance than anything, after all. His thoughts don’t reel, pain doesn’t spike as he metaphorically grips the Light, and peace floods through him. It’s the first time in too long that he’s been able to feel tranquility.  
  
Locating Anakin’s presence requires very little effort. Though young, his signature in the Force is blinding and Obi-Wan doubts that he could ignore it even if he wanted, even in his purposefully surface-level meditation. The boy is less supernova and more stable and true sun at the present, which can only mean that he’s safely asleep. Stretching his awareness only a little further, Obi-Wan is able to pick up on the already familiar, if dull without the same vibrance Force sensitivity grants, presence of Jango Fett somewhere further away from he and Anakin. Obi-Wan frowns, dipping out of the shallow trance. For a blissful moment, he was so caught up in the relief of feeling the Light in earnest again that he had forgotten about Fett.  
  
The conversation from earlier, paired with a healthy heaping of embarrassment, flicker into focus and Obi-Wan winces. He never has been able to grow out of his childish need to protect his ego, in some form or another. Having what can only be classified as a meltdown at the mercy of a stranger definitely bruises said ego more than a fair amount. That brings up the other uncomfortable fact he has strategically been ignoring: he definitely (though accidentally, considering he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it) threatened Fett with a lightsaber. Granted, he was met with an unimpressed stare even _with_ the blade dangerously close and, if Obi-Wan remembers correctly, has only responded to attempts at apology with contempt. Kenobi needs to get a grip. His own personal shortcomings and shame do not erase that Jango Fett has been needlessly helpful – no doubt for Anakin’s sake rather than Obi-Wan’s – and did make a point. Obi-Wan is out of his depth, he has no idea what he’s doing.  
  
He finally moves to stand up, feeling more rested than he has in ages. For how restless and uncomfortable he was at the beginning of the voyage, he certainly slept like a rock for the lattermost part of it. Eventually, he contends, he will need to ask for Fett’s input and possibly attempt to convince the bounty hunter to help him fine tune a more solid plan of action for Shmi’s sake. Standing in the ‘fresher, he can see that the dark bags under his eyes have lessened dramatically – though he’s always doubted that they’ll ever go away in entirety, and those chances seem to be dwindling by the day. He looks worse for wear, of course, but at least he looks functional. If he had strolled into Dex’s looking this well-rested and composted, he wonders if Fett would have still taken pity on Anakin and himself. He runs a hand through his already growing hair – pointedly ignores the braid hanging over his shoulder – and tries to look somewhat presentable, despite the inevitability that neither of his travel companions care.  
  
Obi-Wan successfully isolates and separates two _laters_ to sift through at their appropriate moments so that his mental compartments can remain well-organized. Pre-Tatooine, the most important, is closer to a _now_ than a _later_. It includes figuring out how to go about freeing Shmi and keeping Anakin safe while they are on Tatooine. It involves figuring out where he will go if the Skywalkers do not want him around. Everything to do with the planet in question and the people it involves. These are daunting tasks on their own, but if he completely ignores what has now decided is _Post_ Tatooine, then he can begin considering them. Post-Tatooine _laters_ include thinking about when to cut his Padawan braid without either Qui-Gon or Knighthood. It’s a far off and distant _later_ for his own fragile stability. It’s a _later_ whose undertones sound strangely reminiscent of never. He stretches, sighs, and resigns himself to speaking with Fett once more. At the very least, it will help solidify the budding approach to Shmi that is slowly but steadily sprouting. It will cross off the _later_.  
  
He leaves the room before he can figure out more ways to distract himself and prevent the inevitable. It’s an impulsive and unthinking action that has him poking into the cabin with the source of Anakin’s bright signature before he heads towards where Fett is likely to be. He doesn’t think that Fett would have tried anything, as he’s already reasoned with himself multiple times over, but it quells some lingering and faint anxiety lurking far back in his mind. If the Force had been shielded from him, then he will always be concerned that he can’t be sure of any of his other senses, even if marginally. As predicted, Anakin is sound asleep, just as his steady presence suggested. He’s buried under quite a few blankets and is more still than Kenobi has ever seen him. Obi-Wan takes yet another deep breath, nodding to himself before moving to hopefully fix whatever damage he has done to what no doubt already little regard the bounty hunter held him in.  
  
Checking the main hull – which apparently doubles as Fett’s favored kitchenette, apparently, despite the amount of space onboard _Jaster’s Legacy_ that Obi-Wan is yet to even lay eyes on and probably never will – comes up with only empty space. He focuses on the quiet but unmistakable and concretely stable presence onboard and heads upwards to the cockpit in search of it. The door is shut, and he’s about to knock when he hears muffled conversation behind it. He promptly turns on his heel to return back to the safety of the empty space proper and occupy himself otherwise, manners dictating that option as the only one worth taking. A smaller part of him, the part that spent twelve years as Qui-Gon’s apprentice and however many more dedicated to twisting words and rules, makes him stay static where he is. Fett is an enigma whose motives are still unclear to Kenobi, and while everything the other man has done and, frankly, said, indicate altruism with unknown cause. Obi-Wan doesn’t trust it. If he doesn’t knock, then he doesn’t interrupt the conversation – a polite approach with the same outcome as the former option. He stays in half-motion between standing and moving, straining to hear.  
  
“Roz,” Fett cuts someone on the other line off, sounding long-suffering and vaguely affectionate, “I don’t want to have this conversation.”  
  
“You know I worry about you, Jango!” Logically, Obi-Wan knew that the bounty hunter had friends. Hearing it confirmed still manages to catch him off guard.  
  
“Roz.” It sounds as casual as someone begging for conversation to be over possibly can.  
  
“You never back down from jobs. It probably saved your life, too! the Bando Gora is no good, I tell ya. What got you to change your mind?”  
  
“ _Roz._ ” Fett urges the name a third time. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, just let it be.”  
  
“Alright, Jango,” The correspondent – obviously Roz – stretches the first syllable of the word too long, turning it into a symbol of skepticism. There’s a pause in conversation, the sound of shuffling coming from the cockpit.  
  
“I’ve gotta go. I’ll comm you later, maybe.” Obi-Wan stands dumbly for a split second, processing the words before quickly walking away. The worst thing would be for Fett to walk out and see that he was listening in.  
  
He quickly makes for the same table that he had sat at during their previous conversation, staring at the backs of his hands to pretend to be pre-occupied in thought. Despite only hearing a little bit of the conversation, he can’t let go what he did catch from it. Jango Fett did not divulge his friend, someone whose obvious concern for the man seems to have been reciprocated to at least some degree, of why he changed plans. It could be that the bounty hunter is just a private person, it’s more likely that that’s the case, at least. But Obi-Wan can’t keep from thinking that it’s because Fett believes him when he says that something felt off, surveyed.  
  
_I trust people’s instincts, more often than not._ Fett had said.  
  
It’s not in and of itself a particularly novel statement, but Obi-Wan Kenobi is a stranger the other had just met in a diner. Obi-Wan Kenobi has no money to his name and no proof of his own feelings. Well, proof that would be tangible to someone like Fett. Despite feeling clearer, Obi-Wan has a bad feeling about this.  
  
“Hear anything interesting, Kenobi?” Obi-Wan startles as Fett suddenly grumbles out from the entryway of the cockpit, glaring down at him with intent to kill. Kenobi schools his expression quickly. Lurking around a bounty hunter’s ship – someone he failed to remember makes a living off of knowing when people are hiding in shadows – was not the most pre-meditated decision that he’s ever made, for certain.  
  
“A friend?” Obi-Wan asks, since there’s no good reason to deny it. Doing so would insult the intelligence of both parties. It briefly occurs to him that for said friend to not get an update on what Jango is doing away from Coruscant, he would need to have had a planned trajectory before then. The Bando Gora, Roz had said. Obi-Wan is not familiar with the name at all, but the message is undeniable. Fett dropped a job for this. The thought solidifies with more emphasis, reverberating with some inexplicable weight. _He dropped a job for this._  
  
"Something like that.” Fett answers, leaning on the frame as casually as a half-armed and no doubt dangerous bounty hunter can whilst staring lasers.  
  
“I wanted to talk to about Tatooine.” Obi-Wan says, sure to speak clearly and without any hesitation, leaving nothing to be questioned about the change in subject.  
  
“Then talk.” The other answers brusquely and in an already too familiar way.  
  
“I think I have a plan.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“You were right,” Obi-Wan begins with first and foremost, and Fett looks mildly surprised by the sentiment. “It isn’t safe for Anakin to return to Tatooine this soon.” The bounty hunter nods once in recognition, stare turning from dangerous to expectant. Obi-Wan swallows hard. He still doesn’t fully trust Fett, but Anakin is the one thing he somehow feels confident in. “I don’t know if you would be willing to wait and stay with him a little while longer.” He feels stupid asking but Fett just shrugs.  
  
“Sure. What do you have in mind?” The response still comes as a surprise to Obi-Wan, who was more inclined to believe that Fett would prefer to get off Tatooine as quickly as possible without them to get on with his life. It would be more aligned with the typical character of an aloof bounty hunter. He’ll have to give up thinking that he understands the other man at all, eventually, since clearly everything he’s presumed has been wrong.  
  
“I don’t want to bargain over sentient life, but it would be the quietest and quickest way,” Obi-Wan doesn’t respond to Fett’s humorless chuff of laughter, unsure if it is in response to his lack of funding or the absurdity of his reluctance. “I have a decent sabacc hand–” More than decent, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling foolish for establishing gambling as his best approach. He remembers thinking that Qui-Gon had been out of his mind for relying on gambling, and though this is decidedly different, he still feels hypocritical. Obi-Wan understands completely when Fett stops him so soon.  
  
“Okay. You’re skittish and straitlaced and look it. They’ll eat you alive.” He counters like the issue is that Obi-Wan can’t change his entire demeanor on a whim.  
  
“Then what do you suggest?” He asks. Jango shrugs again.  
  
“I’ll handle it.” It’s stated like the most obvious conclusion in the world, and Obi-Wan fights to temper his rising frustration. He’s grateful for any help he can get, but not for the condescension or the confusion its sowing.  
  
“You dropped a job for this.” Obi-Wan responds, meaning to insinuate that the other has no reason to go out of his way to do such a thing. He highly doubts Fett wants to spend the time on Tatooine, let alone barter with a junkshop dealer.  
  
“If you pry into my personal business again it will be the last thing you do.” Is the point that Fett decides to address, instead.  
  
“Of that I’m sure. Trust me when I say I will not make that mistake twice.” Obi-Wan is careful to mask his mounting frustration in nicety, both to ease the tension that never fails to pervade every conversation with Fett and in hopes that it will dissipate the underlying emotion entirely.  
  
“See to it.” Fett concludes, finally moving past him and starting to heat water. He’s obviously making more caf. Obi-Wan realizes has never had an entire conversation with the man yet where he _isn’t_ drinking it. He doesn’t laugh at the sentiment, regardless of how oddly humorous it strikes him as. If Jango Fett needs to sleep, that’s certainly beyond Obi-Wan’s arsenal of knowledge.  
  
“I’m not going to try anything,” The part of him that cares too much about anyone and everyone, regardless of who they are, says despite himself. Jango looks at him with a quirked brow. “If that’s why you’re staying awake,” He elaborates, only for Fett to shake his head and roll his eyes like it’s the stupidest thing anyone’s accused him of.  
  
“You were out for almost two whole rotations, Kenobi,” A soft _oh_ falls from Obi-Wan’s mouth without his permission as the words sink in. That’s no small amount of time. It certainly explains the pang of hunger in his gut, despite the probably expired ration bar he’d reluctantly consumed earlier. Still, Fett’s been watching Anakin for almost two rotations. There’s a good chance Jango knows the entirety of Anakin’s life story and whatever the boy knows of Obi-Wan, as well. He probably knows everything that Skywalker knows entirely, given two days. “We’ll reach planet in a few hours.” Fett adds, and Obi-Wan blinks absently in a rare act of speechlessness.  
  
“I see,” Is what he settles on.  
  
The bounty hunter leans against the wall, takes a sip of his instant caf, and nods to himself.  
  
“You’ll have to find your own way back to Coruscant.”  
  
“What?” Obi-Wan asks, unable to track where the point has manifested in the other’s train of thought.  
  
“I’m not getting you back to the Jedi.” Obi-Wan is so distracted by the articulation of the words that he doesn’t really process their meaning. A hard consonant followed by drawn out vowel. It doesn’t sound like basic. _Jetii_. The Mando’a is supplied to him without permission. It’s not a word he’ll soon forget. Nearly a cognate. Always with a bite of venom behind it. He shakes the thought away. If Fett truly is Mandalorian, that would mean he’s probably Death Watch, that would mean problems for Obi-Wan. He’s reading into it too deeply, almost certainly.  
  
Obi-Wan doesn’t say that he has no intent on ever going back to Coruscant. He doesn’t explain that he already left the Order in his lifetime, that he strongly doubts he would get a second – third? – chance. He doesn’t mention how disinclined he is to return to the planet bathed in darkness. He doesn’t say that he feels driven to stay by Anakin’s side, nor does he mention that he very well intends to teach the boy as promised. Instead, he chooses something safer, something he knows is common ground between the two of them.  
  
“The Skywalkers should leave Tatooine,” Regardless of where Kenobi goes, the Skywalkers deserve to have a fresh start where they won’t be in imminent danger.  
  
“And I’ll get them wherever they want to be.” Obi-Wan keeps himself from asking why. If the conversation nearly two days ago proves anything, it’s that he won’t get an answer. Obi-Wan feels his expression grow tense. “You have ideas?” He does.  
  
“Maybe… maybe Naboo,” Obi-Wan is very careful to school his expression. He would not like to go back to Naboo – Naboo where his master died, Naboo that was swallowed by darkness – but Naboo would offer a good home to the Skywalkers, should Shmi agree.  
  
“Hilarious.” Evidently, some of Obi-Wan’s other opinions on the planet managed to slip through his composed façade. He doesn’t react, mostly because he doesn’t want Fett to have the satisfaction.  
  
“They have loose immigration laws; they wouldn’t even have to register anywhere if they didn’t want to. Not to mention the Queen’s resources that Anakin–” The other rolls his eyes, effectively silencing Obi-Wan’s argument.  
  
“If you can _say_ Naboo without looking like you’re going to pass out, I’ll consider it.” Fett shoots back. It’s a novel thing, that a person with such poor opinions of the Jedi and who seems to want as little do with Obi-Wan as possible, is taking into account his micro-expressions. “Anakin’s attached to you.” Fett explains, “If you plan on returning to the Order, you should at least give him some warning.” He doesn’t bother masking the bitterness behind the words.  
  
“I don’t intend–” Obi-Wan starts but quickly cuts himself off, suddenly aware that the room has another occupant. Both he and Fett look to the boy stepping into the hull with them.  
  
Anakin stands at the threshold, rubbing sleep from his eyes. A bright smile lights up his face when he sees Obi-Wan, and he can’t help but mirror the expression.  
  
“Obi-Wan! You’re finally awake!” Anakin pummels into him, wrapping his small arms tightly around him. Obi-Wan laughs after the initial shock subsides and returns the embrace, though with significantly less fervor.  
  
“Hello there,” He greets.  
  
“I wanted to make sure you were okay but Jango told me to leave you alone because you were super tired and needed to be alone. I’m so excited you’re up now, though!” Then he loosens his hold on Obi-Wan to look back at Fett. “Oh, hi Jango!” Anakin practically beams at the two of them.  
  
“Morning, kid.” Fett says, lifting his mug in greeting.  
  
“Are you feeling better?” Anakin asks, turning back to Obi-Wan suddenly.  
  
“Much, thank you. I’m sorry I was unavailable for that long. I trust you weren’t too much trouble?” He pokes, and Anakin’s smile widens.  
  
“Hm.” Jango hums from his place against the wall, “Anakin, where do you want to go after we pick up your mom?” Anakin looks pleasantly surprised to have been addressed.  
  
“Me?” Fett nods and Obi-Wan watches as boy’s expression sinks into deep thought. He comes to a conclusion a few seconds later. “I want to go everywhere,” He answers earnestly, too young and optimistic to realize how unrealistic it is.  
  
“That’s certainly a better answer than his.” Jango says, nodding in Obi-Wan’s direction and Anakin laughs at his expense.  
  
An urgent beeping sounds from the cockpit and Fett sets his caf down, heading off to no doubt hunt down the source without so much as a word to either of them.  
  
“Obi-Wan,” The boy starts, sounding uncharacteristically serious, “Are you going to leave afterwards?” He asks, head tilting to the side and hands starting to fidget with the fabric of his sleeves. “Jango said you might leave, but I told him that you wouldn’t.” Anakin explains, and Obi-Wan once again realizes that the two of them had had two rotations to talk about Kenobi without him available to defend himself. “Mom would say it’s selfish of me to ask you to stay. Leaving home was really hard for me, and I’m sorry that you had to leave your home for me.”  
  
“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan starts, but finds himself a little lost at where to begin. “If you and your mother allow it, I would like to teach you in the ways of the Force,” Obi-Wan says slowly, forcing the illusion of serenity that the sentiment itself does not provide, regardless of the pull of the Force itself. Knowing that he’s doing the right thing does not mean that he isn’t painfully aware of how young and underqualified and all around in over his head he is. It also does little stop the inevitable free fall he’s already bracing himself if Shmi does not let Obi-Wan teach Anakin.  
  
“So, you’ll be staying with us?”  
  
“Well, not _with_ , but–”  
  
“And you can teach me to be a Jedi?”  
  
“Not technically–”  
  
“Do I get to learn how to use a lightsaber, still?”  
  
“Anakin, I–” Anakin cuts him off again, his thoughts moving too quickly for Obi-Wan to even hope to keep up with, much less answer by the time the boy has formulated more questions.  
  
“If you called Mr. Qui-Gon master because he was your teacher, does that mean I should call _you_ master?” Anakin asks. Obi-Wan thinks over the question. Anakin will not be a Jedi and Obi-Wan is only twenty-five, he would rather not have the honorific. Before he can answer, Fett reappears in the space between cockpit and the open space.  
  
“Not on my ship,” He snaps, looking at Obi-Wan expectantly. The conviction behind the sentiment speaks of a personal offense taken. He knows better than to ask.  
  
“I have to agree, that would make me rather uncomfortable.” Obi-Wan draws out, maintaining an easy calm and pulling Anakin’s attention back to him. “Just Obi-Wan will do.” He smiles easily as he says it.  
  
“Oh, okay!” Anakin answers, seemingly immune to whatever aggression was just provoked. The culprit moves back to his abandoned coffee.  
  
“We should probably talk details. We touch down sooner than expected.” He says, deserting the previous conversation topic. Obi-Wan sighs. It’s an easier subject matter, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last exposition-based chapter, I promise! Thank you for bearing with me. Onwards and upwards, let's get cookin'!
> 
> Shout out to my sister for listening to me ramble about plot/offering priceless input basically every night past midnight (braver than any U.S. Marine) and my _other_ sister for creating art that makes me emotional. [(Does her Jango and Anakin make me weep? Yes.)](https://orangeblob79doodles.tumblr.com/post/627553970053922816/enter-a-diner-looking-for-some-caf-leave-with-two)
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr, if you feel so inclined! ](https://rejectedbard.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aiming for Sunday updates, but classes are officially in full swing for me again, as well as everything that entails, so who knows how long I'll keep that up (she says, on a Monday).

Tatooine must be the reason that the term dirtball has been popularized to mean an absolute dump. The whole planet is a too saturated shade of orange, the spaceport town itself bleached an unnatural white by its two suns, accented only by junkyards and sleazebags. If it weren’t for his helmet, Jango’s lungs would no doubt be choked out by the dust and sand and whatever else the sentients wandering through Mos Espa kick up into the too stagnant air as they meander their ways through. It’s uncomfortable and stifling, even with the filtration he has on hand. The dry heat is oppressive, two suns being one far too many, and Jango can’t blame Anakin at all for being so cold considering this is all that he’s known. It’s a wonder that the kid hadn’t complained more about the chill. Jango actively fights to ignore the way sweat accumulates underneath his armor, making the cloth bunch stiffly around his joints. He’s wandered through plenty of cities more unpleasant than this, though none come to mind.  
  
It smells like cheap fuel, bad spice, and sweat. Combined, it zeroes in on the worst sort of nostalgia – too-lucid memories of spice freighters and the familiar weight of shackles – that somehow manages to occupy the back of his brain without his expressed permission. It’s the same sort of uncomfortable as the unbearable heat; inescapable and only made considerably worse the more he thinks about it. So, he doesn’t. He focuses on the task at hand and takes in his surroundings as best as he can. Kenobi and Anakin had stayed aboard the _Legacy_ with expressed orders to not touch anything, which is probably another reason Roz thinks Jango is going out of his mind. He can’t find it in himself to blame her; he’s thought himself in circles over the logic of it and has long since given up trying to justify himself on it. If he wants to help a kid, he’s gonna help a kid. That’s that on that.  
  
Jango’s armor, on top of trapping heat, does a very adequate job deterring any would-be panhandlers or shoulder-brushers. Having a solid five-foot radius of empty space around him benefits the citizens of Mos Espa’s lower districts as much as it does himself – his trigger finger is always itchier when he’s annoyed, and between the smothering heat that visibly radiates in waves off of the streets and his general impatience for people, he’s sooner to shoot first and ask questions later. Strangers stare, equal parts cold-eyed – probably the only _cold_ thing Tatooine has to offer – and curious as he walks through, a clear Outlander. Jango pays no mind to the occasional heckles shouted his way amongst the unending stream of mixed Basic and Huttese and even Jawaese (ugly language that it is, the only thing worse than hearing it is trying to communicate with it. Jango’s never been good at picking up tonal languages). If anyone wants to try to follow through with the empty threats in their insults, they’re more than welcome to try.  
  
Even without Anakin’s elaborately sketched map – the lines wobbly with the poor fine motor skills of a child, despite how hard he had focused – Jango probably would have been able to accurately traverse Mos Espa based on the kid’s in-depth story-telling mechanics alone. Mos Espa isn’t small by any means, but it is a junk spaceport town, which means that it is much easier to navigate than any of its permanent inhabitants would probably like. Places like this have tons of shoot-offs from main roads, winding into back-streets and alleyways where shadows are wont to cling and conceal any business unsuited for the public eye, but at the end of the day, staying true to course will always lead to the final destination. Jango just needs to follow the current until he reaches the structure Anakin had labeled with a comical sketch of an angry looking toydarian in lieu of writing.  
  
He isn’t too far from the hangar he’d left the _Legacy_ in (and Anakin and Kenobi, by consequence), and he’s glad of it. It’s better for all of them if he’s quick about this. The second they breached the atmosphere, Kenobi got all twitchy and insufferable again and Anakin had somehow found a way to be even more excited, practically vibrating on his feet. It’s next to impossible to imagine that kid adjusting to life in the Jedi Temple, missing his mother and unable to sit still for a few moments, much less to meditate or empty all of the thoughts from his skull. Jango thinks about his immediate course of action but finds there isn’t much contingency to plan for. Haggling is surprisingly easily when there’s a death threat on the table.  
  
A bell chimes when he walks through the doorway to the junkshop, and he’s only half-listening as he’s greeted with too much feigned enthusiasm from the shop owner. Jango looks around at the inside of the shop, mentally mapping the layout and seeing if the boy’s mother is around by chance, then promptly wastes time trying to identify some of the random scraps to seem a little bit more natural. He has very little luck being able to conjure the names for the parts, all of which in varying states of disarray, even though Anakin passed on stories about most of the crap in this room. He absently runs a hand over a rusted pit droid that has seen better days.  
  
“Hey, hey,” The second drawn-out syllable pulls Jango’s attention away from the droid, and he turns to the source of that _just_ audible enough wing-flapping behind the counter. “Dual Westars and Mandalorian armor?” The toydarian – Watto, Jango’s mind helpfully supplies, having absorbed the name from listening to Anakin – laughs after making the observation. “I’ve heard plenty of unfortunate pilots spin tales about you, Bounty Hunter.” Jango cannot muster the energy to dignify a response, if Watto knows who he is then it’ll only help this run smoother. It’s of little consequence to him. He scans the store once more, just in case he somehow missed the wayward Skywalker.  
  
“What can I do for you?” Watto asks after a beat. It isn’t often that Jango wishes he didn’t have his helmet on, but he can only hope that the junk dealer can pick up on his contempt.  
  
“Skywalker here?” He asks gruffly.  
  
“Ah, so that’s it. You and half this parsec,” Watto prattles off, scratching at the back of his neck and staring just past Jango while he vacantly fills the brief quiet with every vowel actively used in this sector. “No, no, the boy’s not here. Left with some Jedi, apparently, not that anyone would tell me, no? I suggest you take it up with them.” It sounds rehearsed. This isn’t first time Watto has given the speech. It won’t be the last, either, in that case.  
  
“Not the boy. His mother.”  
  
“Shmi? Sure, sure–” He trails off like he’s trying to figure out what to say to make conversation feel more natural. He won’t have much luck. Jango has nothing to offer a slave-dealer. Watto moves from his space behind the counter, adjusting the stupid bowl-like hat he’s sporting, and flits around the shop. “You need a mechanic?” Jango considers his options carefully.  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“What’s wrong with your ship, then? I have parts,” Watto suggests, gesturing around them to the collection of scraps.  
  
“Nothing is wrong with the ship.” Jango answers honestly, because he knows better than anyone that he is a dismal liar. Better to tell the truth and become some enigmatic, faceless man in armor than asked more questions meant to sniff out a lie.  
  
Watto doesn’t look amused by this tactic. If anything, he looks deep in thought – perturbed, annoyed, and a little confused. After the race, there’s no doubt in Jango’s mind that the shop owner needs any revenue he can get; it’s probably the only reason that he’s playing along with Jango’s cryptic conversing. He’ll need to be more forthcoming if he wants to get out of here quickly.  
  
“Word on the street is that you lost no small fortune in the Boonta Eve. It costs money to maintain slaves.” It’s just an empirical statement, but the implication is there.  
  
“So, you think that Shmi can get you to the boy, eh? I already told you, he left to the Jedi,” Watto waves him off and he rolls his eyes freely from behind his helmet. He wishes Qui-Gon Jinn were alive, if only so that he could strangle the man for leaving Skywalker here.  
  
“She’s not as skilled as the kid. I could compensate you more than a fair amount,” He won’t – he has no intention on offering the junk dealer any sum – but he _could_. It means he doesn’t stutter over the words or show too much of his hand. Another calculated partial-truth that can keep the conversation moving.  
  
“You know a lot about my slaves,”  
  
“You know about me.” Jango counters, figuring it’s a fair enough exchange. Watto should know well enough to accept it as an explanation, and if he doesn’t, it’s a wonder he’s made it in Hutt-sanctioned territory for this long.  
  
“It would have to be a, uh, considerable amount, yes?”  
  
_This isn’t the plan,_ Jango criticizes himself, but he needs to at least know where the woman is before he can follow through; that and where the blasted transmitter is. There’s only one sure way to find that out, and unfortunately it requires talking to Watto and learning some things.  
  
“How much?” The question tastes rancid in his mouth, sparking guilt that, a lifetime ago, would have deterred him from having this conversation. Now, he can shut it down in a matter of seconds. Jango Fett didn’t become a renowned bounty hunter by having a soft stomach, after all. What was it that Kenobi said about not wanting to barter sentient life? The specifics don’t matter. At least that’s something Jango can agree with full-heartedly.  
  
Watto thinks on it for a moment, and Jango waits idly to hear what the number will be. If it’s too low, he’ll be disgusted that someone could value life so little. If it’s too high, it’ll be intended as an insult against Jango. That sick feeling slinks back into the forefront of his mind.  
  
Jango decides he doesn’t much care to discover the answer.  
  
His left hand is quicker to draw than his right. The toydarian falls from flight with an unceremonious thud, two well-placed blaster bolts still smoking off the body in the new quiet of the shop. Jango closes the gap between the two and pokes at the fresh corpse with his foot. There goes getting information.  
  
Jango can’t recall the last time he made a hot-headed decision like that. It seems, though, that this week continues to dredge up parts of him he thought have long since been culled. Time is the main consequence; it won’t be particularly difficult to question around town after Anakin’s mother, so that isn’t a problem, but it will take time. As far as repercussions go, he doubts anyone will try to drag the Hutts in over something so small. While this was a possible – more probable, if he’s being honest – outcome to swindling the toydarian, he’ll have to work around the complications now. _Maybe Kenobi’s sabacc hand_ would _have worked better_ , he thinks bitterly.  
  
The sound of shuffling snaps Jango’s head up. He had neglected to check the back doorway that presumably leads to a courtyard also bursting with junk. Standing a few steps back, expression completely neutral, if on edge stands a witness. She doesn’t look like she’s about to move or instigate conversation, instead just adjusts the grip on the hydrospanner she has in her right hand. This is Shmi Skywalker, Jango knows it instinctually.  
  
The resemblance between the two Skywalker’s isn’t overwhelming and had Jango not been looking for it, he doubts he would see it at all. It’s there, of course, something in the way Shmi’s facial expression shifts mirrors Anakin’s, but not as noticeable as he would have thought. She maintains eye contact with the soulless t-visor, her expression firm but wary.  
  
“Skywalker?” He asks for confirmation, voice warping with the modulation of his helmet. He already knows that it’s her, but verification. can’t hurt. She nods apprehensively.  
  
“How can I help you?” She asks. Her voice isn’t small by any means, but it does bear an apparent air of cautiousness. Jango clenches his teeth, her discomfort doing little to quell his temper. He has no idea how to assure this woman that he has no malintent, at least not in a way that will be convincing if she has any semblance of sense.  
  
“I’m here with your son,” He tries to explain, but the words don’t string themselves together quite like they are intended. Shmi finally breaks her stare away from Jango’s helmet and to the toydarian’s corpse. Right, yes, that definitely doesn’t help. She looks back to him.  
  
“Oh,” Aside from her posture going rigid, she makes no indication of emotional reaction. Jango takes a handful of steps forward in an attempt to close the space between them, at least enough so that he doesn’t feel like he’s shouting. “I’m afraid I don’t have much I can offer you, sir,"  
  
“What?”  
  
“I don’t know what you want, but my son has done nothing wrong. Please,”  
  
“Wait, no, that’s not,” _What I meant,_ he means to finish, but the words fall flat when Shmi’s apprehension morphs into fear. Jango realizes abruptly that dealing with a faceless bounty hunter might not be the most comforting thing. He removes his helmet, tucking it under an arm while the other wipes across his face. His eyes take a second to adjust to the saturation of the room. Without fully thinking it through, he takes another stride forward.  
  
Shmi has the same idea though, and Jango can only partially perceive the flash of metal being directed at his face. It lands with a crack. A bright throb of pain follows shortly thereafter. His hand snaps up to catch the wrist that goes for a follow through jab and doesn’t let go – he probably deserved that.  
  
“Where’s my son?” She questions.  
  
“ _Kriff,_ ” He breathes, tilting his head up to try to avoid a possible nosebleed and blinking rapidly to dissipate the involuntary tears gathering from getting nailed in the face with a hydrospanner. “Shit,” He reiterates. To be fair, it was with the assistance of dense metal. That doesn’t mean it stings any less.  
  
“ _Where is my son?_ ” She asks again, voice hushed but venomous, as she tries to tug away from the grip on her wrist.  
  
“Him and his Jedi friend are back on my ship–”  
  
“Is he hurt?” Her voice strains against emotion.  
  
“No–No, I was hired to get you out of here,” Shmi is possessed by the spirit of a woman who has literally nothing to lose, and Jango realizes his mistake and quickly elaborates. “ _By your son,_ by Anakin! he asked me,” He drops her still-raised fist when realization, or at least confusion too strong to think about anything else, overtakes her.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m here to get you back to Anakin – freed,” He explains, the words finally coming together the way he meant them to initially. Shmi glances back towards Watto. “He was complicating things.” He nods in the direction of the corpse. She still looks unconvinced, taking a wary step backwards. Smart.  
  
“I understand.” She acknowledges hesitantly. Jango sighs, wiping off some of the blood that’s starting to wind up under his nose. Luckily, it isn’t much. He rubs off the remnants on a pant leg. Getting cracked in the face with a hydrospanner is a new one, for sure. The ache radiates across his full face.  
  
Shmi still looks sensibly concerned, waiting for Jango to make the next move.  
  
“You wouldn’t happen to know where your transmitter is, would you?” Jango asks, mostly sarcastic. He’s nowhere near that lucky – he’ll probably have to make short work of digging through Watto’s records in form of penance for shooting so quickly.  
  
“How did you come across him?” She asks, crossing her arms across her chest protectively. The deflection isn’t cleanly executed, and that catches Jango’s attention. Either she _does_ know or thinks Jango already knows.  
  
“Anakin?” He asks, and Shmi nods. “Coruscant.” She blinks dumbly his way, expecting some sort of further explanation that Jango can’t give. “He’s a good kid.” He tacks on for no reason other than to compliment his upbringing.  
  
“He has a kind heart,” Shmi says in means of thanks. It’s a true statement, though obviously the woman before him would know better than anyone in the Galaxy. For whatever reason, it’s now that Jango realizes that he hasn’t introduced himself yet.  
  
“Jango Fett,” He holds out a hand for the woman to shake. She does, possessing the same air of caution the whole exchange has been enveloped in.  
  
“Shmi.” Jango doesn’t ask for a surname, he already knows it and he doesn’t know Tatooine’s culture well enough to know if it would be a mistake to do so. Instead, he sighs from where he stands and unsheathes one of the vibroblades on his person that he’s tucked away under a gauntlet. He sets his helmet down on the nearest surface.  
  
“I’ve got a steady hand, I can remove the transmitter now,” Jango says, placing a gamble on Shmi somehow actually knowing where it is. He flips the blade in his hand mindlessly. “At least that way if I’m lying you can run,” He reasons. It has the intended effect, Shmi nodding and glancing quickly towards the door.  
  
“I don’t know if…” She trails off, glancing to Watto and then back to the steady flow of people passing the shop.  
  
“No offense, but I don’t think business is thriving enough for it to be a concern. We’d get more attention if we left.” Jango points out, to which Shmi rolls up a loose sleeve just past the crook of her elbow as she steps forward of her own volition.  
  
“Around here.” She says, fingers resting on the space inside her arm, between bone and muscle. Jango doesn’t ask how she knows, it’s none of his business. It’s not a precise, but it will do.  
  
He takes into account the inevitable reaction to getting shanked, but Shmi only grimaces when he makes an incision.  
  
“He was supposed to _stay_ on Coruscant,” Shmi mutters through grit teeth, eyes locked on the precise blade work. Jango isn’t sure if he’s supposed to respond or not.  
  
“Well, he wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms,” He explains, unable to get a read on her reaction without looking up from her arm. The blade hits sudden resistance. “Ah, got it.”  
  
Shmi does wince as he fishes out the deceptively small piece of hardware. He doesn’t bother asking what she wants to do with it, taking it upon himself to let it fall to the dusty ground and immediately crush it beneath his boot.  
  
“I’ve got bacta onboard,” He address the not excessively deep gash in her arm.  
  
“If you’re not lying about everything,” Shmi counters quickly.  
  
“If I’m not lying.” Jango agrees in amusement, “Here, you should call him. The frequency is already put in,” He says, digging a comlink out of one of his pouches and holding it out for her to take from him. She does, tentatively and after a moment of silent contemplation.  
  
“I think I trust you,” She muses foolishly.  
  
“You probably shouldn’t.”  
  
“Probably,” She responds, accompanied with a misplaced warm smile.  
  
Jango again wipes away some of the lingering blood clogging his nose. It really isn’t as bad as he thought it would be – though already partially congealed, which he’ll have to thoroughly wash out later – and the pain itself is now relatively easy to ignore.  
  
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry–” Shmi starts, reaching towards his face without his permission. Jango flinches back involuntarily, but it doesn’t stop the strange woman from investigating her inflicted damage. She swats his hand away from its place so that she can see. “Well, it doesn’t look broken, at least,” Is the final verdict.  
  
“Thank the stars for that,” Jango huffs out bitterly, scrunching his expression together to feel the way the aggravated cartilage complains. “You’ve got a killer swing.” He observes belatedly.  
  
“I am sorry,” She repeats, looking concerned.  
  
“I don’t blame you.” It’s not anyone who can land a hit that clean on him, even if Jango did end up catching the follow through. “I’m not great at, uh,” He waves a hand around trying to conjure the right word from thin air, “Talking.” He completes lamely, because his proclivity towards vague statements and one-word answers, he recognizes, is definitely not ideal in certain situations when detail and precise language is preferable. Shmi just offers another sad, small smile. “You should call, though. Trust or not," He adds awkwardly. Anakin is probably eager to hear any sort of update on progress.  
  
“If you insist.”  
  
No sooner does Shmi respond then the bell chimes from up front again. Jango stares down the new entrant. They wear a thin scarf that covers the lower portion of their face and a hood that casts shadows over any other part of it that would have otherwise been visible, not that it matters. Even from his short time here, he recognized it as typical Tatooine, or at least typical when trying to avoid attention, nothing to concern themselves with too seriously.  
  
“We’re closed.” Jango snaps, and the person’s head tilts downwards in the direction of Watto wordlessly. Shmi strategically steps between view, so fluidly that if Jango didn’t know better he would assume she hadn’t even done it on purpose. “I said _closed_.” He repeats when the stranger’s gloved hand itches towards a weapon somewhere. Jango groans and restates the sentiment more aggressively in Huttese, along with a string of expletives that are expressed too easily in the language. Unlike the masked stranger, he doesn’t hesitate to draw a single weapon while he stares them down. It gets the point across and successfully encourages their departure right as the line is picked up.  
  
“Hello?” Asks a vaguely familiar posh accent.  
  
“Kenobi. I thought I told you not to touch anything.” Jango gripes.  
  
“Right, which I was supposed to assume meant the connection that you are trying to reach us through?” Kenobi fires back, still maintaining that easy calm he projects.  
  
“Hi Jango, it’s me! Anakin!” Anakin shouts over the line, and Jango can vividly picture him clambering over Kenobi to get closer. Shmi exhales, shoulders relaxing with relief at the sound of her son’s voice.  
  
“Yeah, hi Anakin.” Jango responds, but it’s drowned out by Shmi’s excitement.  
  
“Oh, Ani!”  
  
“Mom!” Even without seeing his face, Jango gets an accurate read of just how excited the boy is to hear her voice.  
  
“Are you alright?” She asks immediately.  
  
“Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?” Shmi opens her mouth to respond, but Anakin is Anakin and no doubt already has a million things he wants to share. “Oh! Guess what! I can spell my name in Aurebesh now! Obi-Wan taught me!”  
  
“That’s wonderful, Anakin,” Shmi clutches her free hand to her chest, and if her next intake of breath is shakier and her eyes turn red-rimmed, Jango won’t be the one to mention it.  
  
“You should really put pressure on that, for now.” He instead says, nodding in the direction of the cut on her arm that looks like it’s already starting to clot.  
  
“Oh, yes.” Is the soft reply.  
  
“Pressure on _what_? What happened?” Kenobi asks across the line. Jango ignores him as Shmi takes the comlink and goes behind the counter in search of something.  
  
“Everything is fine,” She proverbially waves off the concern, moving to tie a found semi-clean cloth around the small cut. Jango wants to warn against infection, but figures they’ll get to bacta soon enough. “I’m sorry, is Qui-Gon Jinn with you, by chance?” She asks with some indiscernible tone. Even from the distance away from the receiver, Jango can hear the Kenobi’s hitch of breath. He still isn’t completely clear about what happened, it had apparently been liberally censored for Anakin’s benefit, but it’s a sore spot he doesn’t want the child having to deal with.  
  
“He’s dead.” Jango explains bluntly. Shmi’s expression drops. “Kenobi’s his student,” He says, the official Jedi word for it evading him as per usual.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Shmi speaks into the comlink, even though it’s unlikely that Kenobi heard the Jango’s explanation.  
  
“He is one with the Force.” He still responds diligently. Shmi’s eyebrows knit together, thinking about something, her stare flickering from Jango and then to Watto.  
  
“Well, thank you for looking after my son.” Shmi says with an impossible amount of genuine gratitude. “I can’t wait to see you Ani. You can tell me everything soon.”  
  
“Aw, you’re going?” He asks.  
  
“You want to see me, don’t you?” She asks, voice adequately light despite the tension she’s still holding on to.  
  
“I guess,” Anakin draws out dramatically, and Shmi laughs at the theatrics of it all. “I love you.” He tacks on.  
  
“I love you, too. Be good.” She responds, ending the communication before Anakin can offer some inevitable remark on the matter.  
  
She looks weary, though notably lacking the discomfort and apprehension that she had possessed before. Jango isn’t sure what the source the distress is, now.  
  
“Are you alright?” He asks. Shmi crosses her arms protectively across her chest, nodding. Jango backtracks the conversation mentally. Jinn might be a difficult subject for all parties involved. Anakin, young as he is, probably already has a deeper understanding of life and death than most kids his age. It’s either that he’s desensitized or too naïve to fully process the man’s absence.  
  
“I didn’t know about Kenobi,” Shmi says, instead of asking questions that Jango may or may not know the answers to.  
  
“Apparently he’s the one who fixed the Nubian’s hyperdrive,”  
  
“He was on Tatooine?” She asks, and Jango finds himself acquiring confusion that matches her own. Why wouldn’t Jinn have told her about Kenobi? The two had been in contact the whole time, he can only assume. It’s odd that he wouldn’t have mentioned the other by name.  
  
“So I’ve heard.” He says flatly. “If you have things we need to collect, we should probably head out sooner rather than later.” He mentions, changing the subject abruptly. She nods, expression still pinched.  
  
“We’re headed off planet.” Shmi states, but the intent of a question is there.  
  
“I didn’t think Anakin would be given an overly warm welcome home.” He explains. Shmi nods again.  
  
“That’s… for the best. Where do you intend for us to part ways?”  
  
“Thought it best to leave that up to you. And Anakin, of course.”  
  
“You’ve already done so much, I couldn’t possibly ask,” Jango cuts her off, shaking his head.  
  
“You don’t need to ask.” He reasons, grabbing his helmet and beginning to walk towards the doorway of the shop. If he purposefully nudges the body again on his way past, just out of spite, that’s his business. Shmi remains still.  
  
“And Kenobi?” She asks, equal parts uncertain and curious.  
  
"That’s a discussion you two should have with each other.” Jango responds, not wanting to get into the semantics of Kenobi’s sudden departure from the Jedi Order or his alleged intent to follow the Skywalkers wherever they end up. He doesn’t know what it is that’s going through the kid’s head, and he’s not about to pretend he does.  
  
“You’re a peculiar man, Jango Fett.” Shmi says after a moment, finally following his lead and headed towards the entryway. Jango laughs humorlessly at the comment as he refits the helmet over his head.  
  
“That’s one way of putting it.” He supposes, stepping past the threshold and back into the overpowering sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jango really said he had a plan only to wing it, huh? We'll blame that on anger issues and little reverence for, you know, life.
> 
> Stay healthy and well, friends! 
> 
> As always, [come say hi if you feel like it ](https://rejectedbard.tumblr.com) xoxo


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses and I don’t know what to say except for that I got carried away and word count was the least of my concerns.

There is very little that Obi-Wan can do to keep Anakin from immediately leaping at Shmi Skywalker – he had barely been able to keep the boy on the ship at all since they’ve been on the surface – the moment that she steps into view. She takes one look at his rapid approach and immediately kneels down to his level so she can catch him with open arms. The collision results in Anakin unraveling in a fit of laughter, Shmi not far behind with equal parts amusement and relief. She pushes him back, grip still firmly fixed on the boy’s shoulders, and looks him over.  
  
“Oh, Ani, I’m so glad you’re alright,” Shmi’s words bear the recognizable weight of disbelief. Obi-Wan can only assume that she hadn’t thought she would see her son again, which wouldn’t necessarily be untrue had there not been extenuating circumstances. Even despite the underlying tragedy, he can’t help but smile watching the reunion. Anakin radiates such unrestrained and pure joy that only the truly heartless would be able to look upon it straight faced.  
  
In which case, Jango Fett is apparently heartless because he walks right past the two Skywalkers without sparing a glance. Granted, he still dons a Mandalorian helmet, so Obi-Wan can’t be completely sure of his response, but he doubts that the man bothers with any sort of reaction as he immediately heads towards Kenobi.  
  
“Do you still feel like you’re being followed?” He asks in a hushed tone, voice warped and vaguely mechanical. Obi-Wan thinks about the question, only partially keeping track of Anakin’s nearby rambling. The answer is yes, he feels as if someone is lurking behind him at an uncomfortably close distance, but unlike on Coruscant, the entity is no longer breathing down his neck. For some reason, this distinction is important in his mind. There’s a faint possibility that he’s overly sensitive to the whispers in the Force, now that they had formerly been so loud.  
  
“It’s complicated.” Is what he settles on, careful to match the same the same quiet as the question posed. His stare lingers on the Skywalkers, both of which too engrossed in their own conversation to turn their attention – or maybe they’re just politely ignoring the side talk.  
  
“Uncomplicate it, then. We were tailed.” With that, Obi-Wan quickly tears his attention away from the reunion and to where he assumes Fett’s stare is. He takes an extra moment to fully process that, because he strongly doubts that he’ll be getting any worthwhile clarifications from the other. If there was another Dark Side user on Tatooine, surely the feeling would be more oppressive. Or maybe not, Obi-Wan still isn’t entirely sure he’ll understand the warnings he received on Coruscant. He isn’t even sure he wants to. That would also have confusing implications for the potential rise of the Sith…he doesn’t have time to think through all of that before Fett inevitably reaches his own conclusions, whatever those may be.  
  
“I see,” He starts, instead of going into any of his concerns, “It’s not as loud, no.” He settles on, but Fett apparently doesn’t like this.  
  
“ _Loud_?” He repeats, but Obi-Wan doesn’t have the time to answer and Fett doesn’t have the time to push it further before Shmi enters the conversation.  
  
“You must be Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Both of them turn abruptly to face the woman. She’s taken a few steps forward to be closer to them, Anakin following suit. “I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done.” Obi-Wan finds himself unsure of what to say. Seeing Anakin reunited with his mother has only reaffirmed his decision; it was, is, his duty to follow the will of the Force, he doesn’t need to be thanked for that.  
  
“You needn’t thank me at all, truly. It’s nice to meet you,” He says, and Fett scoffs at him, shaking his head for whatever reason. Obi-Wan does his best to ignore the unwarranted reaction.  
  
“Regardless, I am grateful that Anakin has had your company. Though, to be honest, I’m not particularly sure how or why it is that you’ve returned.” It’s a subtle probe for answers, because of course Fett wouldn’t pass that information – that he no doubt knows from Anakin, himself – to the boy’s mother.  
  
“The Temple normally only accepts initiates within a particular age bracket, one that Anakin far exceeds. It was decided that his skills would be better suited for outside a Temple upbringing,” Obi-Wan responds diplomatically, trying his best to sound impartial. It’s the easiest and quickest way he can explain the situation, though normally the words are saved to be used in reference to one of the corps.  
  
“Obi-Wan wants to teach me, though!” Anakin exclaims, and a faint smile flickers across Shmi’s face. “He says that the Council was afraid of me,” Obi-Wan blanches at the admission, now really wishing that he hadn’t divulged that particular speculation in their time waiting for the others to arrive. Of course, it’s a highly more nuanced sentiment than what Anakin is able to repeat, or maybe Obi-Wan just isn’t adept at explaining shatterpoints. If that’s the case, then he is severely out of his depth in wanting to teach Anakin.  
  
“Did he?” Fett asks, sounding far too amused, and while Obi-Wan might not be able to see where it is the man is looking past the dark visor.  
  
“It’s…complicated.” Obi-Wan accidentally says for the second time while trying to choose his words carefully. Fett shakes his head minutely – somehow more intense of a gesture given he’s in full armor – and then apparently promptly loses interest and opts to rummage around for something. Obi-Wan looks to Shmi, who has wrapped an arm around her son’s shoulders and still looks at him expectantly. “Anakin is quite strong, as I’m sure my master told you.” He says in means of explanation. It’s the one thing that he can say with confidence Qui-Gon would have told Skywalker. His late master was so insistent of it, _proud_ of it, even – which is unsurprising considering he was the same man who was once so proud of Obi-Wan for getting top marks on a basic diplomacy exam that he had not so subtly mentioned it to nearly everyone he conversed with for a week thereafter – that there is little doubt in Obi-Wan’s mind that Jinn would not have gone out of his way to tell Shmi of Anakin’s raw strength.  
  
“People often fear what they do not understand,” Shmi says, nodding sagely. Obi-Wan is infinitely grateful that she can follow his implication.  
  
“Do you want anything?” Fett suddenly interrupts without turning back to face the others. Despite his continued searching, it’s obvious that he’s directed it at Shmi.  
  
“Oh, no. Thank you, though.” She responds belatedly, sounding vaguely disoriented by the question. Fett turns back, medkit in hand, and passes her pre-packaged bacta.  
  
“For once it’s stopped bleeding,” He explains. Obi-Wan can only guess that it’s in regard to what Fett had, over the comm connection, told her to put pressure on. This does little to connect any dots of what it is, exactly, that Fett got up to in town. “I recommend sooner than later.”  
  
“Thank you.” Shmi says with a small nod.  
  
“For what to stop bleeding?” Anakin asks, looking up at his mother expectantly. His mother places a hand on his head and offers another smile.  
  
“Jango helped me remove my transmitter.” She explains.  
  
“Oh.” Anakin responds easily enough, apparently unconcerned with the notion that the job was probably done without any specific medical guidance or care. Obi-Wan looks at Jango, incredulous, hoping for some sort of explanation that he knows he won’t get. He isn’t sure what plan Fett had, but risking Shmi Skywalker’s life and limb had he made a single misstep certainly feels riskier than anything Obi-Wan could have formulated.  
  
“Not the first time.” Fett shrugs, like that makes it any better and doesn’t raise countless more questions. “Besides, it worked out fine.” Before Obi-Wan can retort, Anakin is rushing headfirst into another topic of conversation.  
  
“There’s so much to catch you up on! Oh, guess what!” He starts, tugging Shmi’s attention back to him as he starts animatedly explaining that Padme was actually Queen Amidala herself – apparently that being what he deems the most important topic of conversation. Obi-Wan realizes that it may actually be the last piece of common knowledge they share. Both Skywalkers knew Padme and it’s as good a starter as any. After all, the other important details Anakin may want to share about the Naboo Crisis and his time on Coruscant stem from there.  
  
“Kenobi, give me a hand.” Fett leaves no room for argument as he makes his way to the cockpit. Obi-Wan follows, not willing to possibly piss off the man who, regardless of methods, is going out of his way to help them.  
  
“Sit.” Fett orders from where he’s already sat down himself, not for the first time in their strange voyage and, somehow, Obi-Wan doubts that it will be the last. “We should let them have a moment. They have a lot to talk about.” Obi-Wan ponders the logic but does as he’s told.  
  
“Right.” He offers in response.  
  
Obi-Wan lets the silence between them exist for a moment or two as Fett occupies himself fiddling with some numbers for who knows what in an interface.  
  
“So, you were followed?” Obi-Wan asks after he feels he’s waited an appropriate amount of time to begin conversation again.  
  
“Might’ve been unrelated.” Fett brushes off, which Obi-Wan can only assume means that it isn’t important enough to go into detail about. He’s inclined to accept the vague statement; they are back safely, after all. It doesn’t stop the curiosity or faint worry that accompanies the ordeal, though.  
  
The longer Obi-Wan tries to keep track of just what Fett is doing, the more he wishes that he had paid better attention in his countless astronavigation classes or the independent study sessions with Bant and Garen collectively trying to haul him to a passing grade. The other seems to accomplish what he was meaning to, though, because shortly thereafter the _Legacy_ is taking off with little preface. Still, taking off means that there’s a direction, which means that he must have some idea of where he’s taking them.  
  
“Did Shmi have a location in mind?” Obi-Wan asks, leaning a little to watch as Mos Espa blurs into the rest of Tatooine’s surface from above.  
  
“No. I figure the closer I get you back to the Core, the better. Safer for them, closer to my other business.” Other business meaning the job he was on. Obi-Wan isn’t well-versed in the world of bounty hunting, so he doesn’t know if Fett’s talking about picking up the same job or a new one.  
  
“Thank you, again,” He starts awkwardly, “For doing this.” He clarifies, turning back to face the pilot. Fett appears to be deep in thought and decidedly preoccupied with his current goal, whatever that is, and doesn’t even begrudge Obi-Wan with a less-than-amused huff. Kenobi takes a deep breath and looks back out at the view.  
  
“Wait.” Fett’s modulated voice suddenly says, vaguely urgent. Obi-Wan turns his head, matching the insistency of the request with his stare. “Are you any good at slicing?” He asks, without removing his own attention from the process of leaving the desert planet’s atmosphere.  
  
“I know some basics,” Obi-Wan says, though basics might be a bit of a stretch for his limited knowledge base. Bare minimum might be the better descriptor of choice, though it still falls beyond the typical scope of knowledge that the average sentient may have. He frowns and tries to get a better look at whatever it is Fett might be seeing to make him suggest that something’s amiss. When exactly someone could have managed to slice into the ship? It must have been on Coruscant, or before that. “What do you think it is?” He asks when he realizes that there’s nothing he can see.  
  
“Not sure.”  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to switch to autopilot to figure it out?” Obi-Wan tries to ask as politely as possible. While he can understand wanting to be in control of the ship, if Fett thinks that someone is trying to slice into the ship then they have bigger problems at hand than letting a computer take over for a second. Obi-Wan watches as something flashes on one of the interfaces. He’s never seen a warning like that appear, but any sane person would be able to come to the conclusion that red and exclamation point means trouble.  
  
“That’s part of the problem.” Fett starts, sounding somehow composed and vexed both. “Coordinates at around R-Six, five twenty-seven, four hundred, oh-thirteen mean anything to you?” He asks, and Obi-Wan is about to retort that he isn’t a navigation computer when he realizes suddenly that it does sound familiar. By some stroke of dumb luck, Qui-Gon, and Obi-Wan by consequence, had been digging through the archives in their downtime for some botanical research on native plants in that zone. He still doesn’t know why the coordinates are relevant, though.  
  
“That’s not quite Felucia, but a nearby system, maybe.” He informs the bounty hunter, hoping that an explanation will come soon.  
  
“Felucia? Why would – ah. Of course.” Fett grumbles to himself, growing more impatient by the moment, it seems. While thus far Obi-Wan has come to recognize his presence in the Force as subtle and steady, there’s no denying the visual rage and unsaturated disdain leaking into his demeanor.  
  
“I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happening,” Obi-Wan says instead of asking any of the questions that are circulating his thoughts, careful to keep his tone balanced and relatively calm.  
  
“Someone’s decided to latch onto the nav system. I think it may have originated in the basic comms interface. Do you know if it’s possible to build a bug backwards like that?”  
  
“I... don’t see why not,” Obi-Wan responds quickly, thinking through all of the ways that it could be done. He certainly wouldn’t recommend a maneuver that risky – there are too many ways it could be traced back, and he’s never had reason to slice into anything and take over so thoroughly – but if someone was quick and the ship old enough, there’s a possibility that the command could be rerouted to other sections of the user interface. Possible, but he doesn’t know how probable. He had once done some reading on a principle similar for unrelated reasons; it was about polymorphic _something_ with a kernel mode _something or other_ , and Force does Obi-Wan wish he could remember. The words feel important on their own but mean nothing in context. He feels like he’s close to the connecting logic but can’t seem to make the final jump over the chasm of his own forgetting. “This has to do with Felucia why?” He asks, officially abandoning the train of thought.  
  
“Not Felucia. Galidraan,” Fett corrects, not that it matters much since neither location holds any significance to Obi-Wan. There’s enough bitterness packed in the name of the planet that Obi-Wan knows, more than anything else he’s assumed he better not ask about, to decidedly not ask about it. “Autopilots rigged to head there.” Fett explains properly.  
  
“You said you think it was through the comms?” Obi-Wan asks, officially standing up from the co-pilots seat to lean over Jango’s shoulder proper to try to get a better grasp of when the warning comes up. Maybe it was just when he tried to switch to auto.  
  
“Yeah, that’s what’s happened before.”  
  
“Is it fighting you manually?”  
  
“No, I’m just annoyed that the smug bastard’s been free loading off of me,” Fett grouses, the implication that he at least knows who would try something like this is somewhat comforting to Obi-Wan.  
  
“How can I help?” He asks, since there’s little chance that Fett would want to be actively thinking about flying for the whole trip back to the Core and the only way to avoid that is to fix the problem at hand.  
  
“Here, if you can rewire and reboot it, it might do the trick,” Jango says, handing him a miniature hydrospanner. They’re officially in open space, and Obi-Wan is about to ask if he just want’s Kenobi himself to take the con, but something tells him that’ll be of little use. He resigns himself to hunting for the wiring in question.  
  
Obi-Wan knows enough about ships to know where to begin looking, and so he carefully tucks himself under the console – or at least as well as he can fit – and makes quick work of some paneling there. He tries to only focus at the task at hand. Claustrophobia has never been something that he’s struggled with in particular, but it seems that the older he gets the more being in tight spaces irks him. Even knowing that there’s a full ship outside, not even completely closed in, it feels more anxiety inducing than being in full enclosed spaces had just weeks before. His thoughts drift off on the subject matter even as he tries to focus.  
  
The _Legacy_ is an old ship, and while that doesn’t have to mean more convoluted wiring, it does in this instance. They aren’t tangled, thank the Force, but they do require some thought to parse through and recognize which goes where. Luckily, he’s had plenty of practice performing less than textbook repairs mid-flight. He can vaguely see where the communications wiring runs in a thickly woven together mess of red and black up to the monitor by the pilot’s side of the cockpit, and he quickly traces it back to the central connection.  
  
“I don’t suggest placing any calls, right now.” He jokes, mostly to himself as a sad attempt to distract himself from how the surrounding durasteel could possibly crush him. He’s not even sure that Fett can even hear him from this position.  
  
“Ha, ha.” Comes a sarcastic response. Apparently, Fett can hear him clearly. He pulls the connection loose. Some of the lights inside the paneling flicker off, and Obi-Wan quietly hopes that he hasn’t just caused a rapid descent back to Tatooine. Fett remains quiet, so he assumes they aren’t spiraling back to the surface. He waits for a moment – counts to ten – before plugging the mass back in, wire by single wire, into its rightful spot. Flipping one of the switches on the side, he waits to see which lights blink green before tripping those, as well, and then returning the first to its original position. There’s a hum as it comes back online, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. If he thinks hard enough – or maybe not at all – he can swear it sounds like a ray shield caging him in, paired with the all-encompassing feeling of dread and some unknown presence lurking. The realization for his sudden onset discomfort clicks into place, and as soon as it does, he’s immediately chastising himself for it.  
  
Regardless, he scoots back out into the open (well, more open) space of the cockpit, but remains seated on the floor instead of hauling himself back into seat. He crosses his legs where he sits. Eventually, he’ll need to refasten the panel, but he’d prefer to wait until Fett deems the system functional before doing so.  
  
“Alright, without doing a hard reset I don’t know what else I can do. It won’t be much good if it’s more sophisticated than a simple boot-up command.”  
  
“Trust me, I don’t think he’s capable of anything more than a simple boot-up command.” Fett says, more a complaint than an insult.  
  
“You seem well-versed in their motives,” Obi-Wan observes, not expecting a response of any substance and surprised when Fett actually indulges him.  
  
“If you met Montross you’d agree.”  
  
“A rival, then?”  
  
“More or less.” Fett settles on, though he doesn’t seem too happy about it. Whatever Montross and Galidraan have to do with each other, they are apparently a greater enemy to Fett than the Jedi. It feels like they’ve reached a fragile truce, given the circumstances. Obi-Wan doesn’t test his luck any further.  
  
“You should boot it up, see if it still functions properly. That warning you got earlier, I think it might have been an error from two servers trying to operate at once.” Obi-Wan says, changing the subject back to something safer, even if the validity of the statement up for debate. It’s a guess at best but more realistically a blatant falsehood.  
  
“Comes online just fine, and the nav doesn’t seem to be busted, but I don’t trust it entirely.” Fett says, and as if on cue the pixels on one of the screens flicker in and out. He smacks the side of it and must hit it just right, because the image stabilizes as soon as he does.  
  
“That’s probably a good idea.” Obi-Wan replies, trying his best to smother his amusement at the irony of an allegedly fixed interface shorting out like that.  
  
He waits for something bad to happen, like the entire ship to power off because he accidentally reconnected some wiring incorrectly, but instead there’s just the general rumbling of an old bucket of bolts making its way to a hyperspace lane. Obi-Wan ponders the situation for a moment. Someone wanted to know Fett’s whereabouts enough to try to collect them through tapping calls. If someone truly means Anakin harm, then knowing their most recent moves would not be ideal.  
  
“What does he know?” Obi-Wan asks suddenly.  
  
“I didn’t pass on any information about you all, at least not on a call, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Fett says, finally removing his helmet. “He’d have to put in the work himself.”  
  
“I see. I hope your other job doesn’t suffer too much for it,” He tries to offer in means of sympathy, but Fett does not interpret as such and takes his eyes off of the space in front of him to glare at Kenobi for a second. “Ah. Your business, got it.” He says, slinking back under the console to go ahead and close everything back up and ignore the tripwire he accidentally just sprung. Obi-Wan takes as long as he possibly can but resigns himself to eventually slipping back into the copilot’s seat. He doesn’t try to make any more conversation, the silence just on the edge of amicable enough to be tolerable.

He isn’t sure how long the two sit like that, making their way to more popularized space so that they can speed back to the Core and never speak to each other again. It’s long enough that Obi-Wan slips into a light meditation, only the jarring transition into hyperspace snapping him out of it. He blinks wearily at the bright pull of stars around him.  
  
“Must’ve been a simple thing, seems fine now. Still gonna keep an eye on it for a bit more here, though,” Fett speaks up, and Obi-Wan absently wonders if the man had waited for him to be fully present once more before saying it. Regardless, he appreciates the courtesy. Fett is currently reading something on a datapad while glancing back at the numerous interfaces every so often. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath.  
  
“Right. I might,” He starts, making a move to stand. There’s not much for him to do, but he would like to check in on Anakin and maybe have a proper conversation with Shmi. He waits for Fett to voice disapproval – after all, it was Fett who suggested letting the Skywalkers have a moment to themselves. Without a chrono on hand, Obi-Wan isn’t sure how much time has passed since their departure. If Fett thinks they need more time, Obi-Wan will be more than happy to comply.  
  
Instead, Fett just nods and recognition and continues to scroll through what he’s reading. Obi-Wan interprets it as approval and starts to leave.  
  
“Oh, Kenobi,” Fett says suddenly, turning to look back at him, “If it comes up, see if you can’t get Shmi to eat something.” He concludes, and Obi-Wan immediately nods.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.” He concedes, ignoring the cognitive dissonance it stirs up again. He should be used to being confused by the bounty hunter, at this point, but Fett’s unspoken concern is a valid one. Obi-Wan doesn’t wait any longer to head out.  
  
It’s instinct that has him seeking out Anakin’s presence on the ship, an already learned habit to make sure that the boy is okay. He starts to make his way towards the cabin Anakin has claimed since boarding but stops short when he sees Shmi sitting at the table that’s become a staple in conversations on the _Legacy_.  
  
“Hello,” He says for lack of better things to say. Shmi looks like she’s been quietly contemplating something. Obi-Wan sets out instead to find something to pull together that resembles a meal with what little Fett has in stock for himself and Shmi both. “I think I’m going to make something to eat, if you want anything.” He proposes as casually as he can.  
  
“No, that’s quite alright.” She declines as kindly as possible. Obi-Wan hides a sigh, understanding now why Fett might be concerned if she had been declining offers all day. He squints at a small box – faded by time and from being shoved away for other things – and grabs for it. He’s not particularly hungry, himself.  
  
“Well, would you like some tea, at least?” He asks, pulling it out to double check if his assertion is correct. It looks old, and probably like it will taste bitter even when steeped perfectly, but it will do. Obi-Wan looks back at Shmi, waiting for her answer.  
  
“That would be lovely,” She responds after a moment, “Obi-Wan,” she starts, and Obi-Wan flicks on the already familiar electric kettle, humming in response. “Anakin is quite perceptive, but I would appreciate hearing what happened from you. I imagine that you have more insight than he does, and perhaps more verity, at that.” Shmi requests.  
  
“Of course, I’d be happy to oblige.” He answers on autopilot while his thoughts start spinning again with what a retelling would entail. In reality, he was lucky that Fett hadn’t pried for information more than he had. It was strictly on a functional level, just to figure out what it is that Obi-Wan could have been dragging him into. With Shmi, it’s only right that he shares the events in full; he’s already failed her son once and would like to possibly assuage her that it will not happen again. “And Anakin?” He asks, swallowing a lump in his throat. Obi-Wan knows that the boy’s been sent off to – presumably – rest but checking in can’t hurt.  
  
“It sounds like he’s had quite the week. I told him if he wanted to keep flying through control ships, he would need his rest and sent him to bed.” Shmi says good-naturedly, but Obi-Wan freezes. He had let this woman’s son fly into a control ship. In the middle of a battle. Through a blockade. While he’s busy thinking about that lapse in oversight, Shmi has already moved on. “I know you said I don’t need to, but I truly am thankful. I’m in your debt, Master Jedi.” Obi-Wan’s heart leaps into his throat as soon as he processes the title. He tries to remember how to speak.  
  
“I’m not–I don’t–You don’t need to call me–” He stutters, unable to find the words he’s looking for over the panic rising in his chest again. _Get a grip, Kenobi._  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know Jedi customs well, I’m sorry,” Shmi apologizes, though it’s not her fault in the slightest. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,” she repeats, “I just want to talk. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it seems like you could use someone to talk to.”  
  
“No, no. It’s quite alright,” He assures her, thankful that the kettle switches off in that moment.  
  
Obi-Wan takes a purposeful breath while pouring the hot water over Jango’s expired teabags, steeling himself. Tatooine had wrought up the same emotions that had been present the last time he had been on-planet, and while an adequate amount – though the word does little to recount nearly two whole rotations – of sleep has aided his ability to recognize the pervading dread as something outside of his purview of control, it does little to ease the residual anxiety. Maybe it really _is_ the Sith playing mind games with him. Regardless of what it is, he’s dealt with more uncomfortable sensations. He can fix a cup of tea and carry out conversation with a stranger just fine.  
  
“Ah, how do you take your tea?” He cranes his neck over his shoulder to ask. Shmi smiles from her spot at the table, a genuine and soft expression that she apparently reverts to easily.  
  
“As is, is fine. Thank you, Obi-Wan.” He smiles in return as he turns around, both cups of steeping tea in hand, and settles in the space across from her. It’s where Fett normally sits, he realizes, and for some reason it feels wrong to have altered the routine he didn’t even realize he had established. With that thought, he slides Shmi’s designated tea to her, repressing a slight tremor in his hands.  
  
Shmi Skywalker rests her own palm over his, still loosely attached to the mug. Obi-wan stares at their hands for what feels like an eternity until she drops hers.  
  
“I understand that you’ve sacrificed a lot to take care of him.” She says, something reverent about it. Obi-Wan shakes his head.  
  
“It wouldn’t have been right to leave him behind. Afterall, we were the ones who told him to leave his home.” He uses the term “we” to refer to multiple groups of people – himself and Qui-Gon, the Order as a whole, anyone who could be considered responsible in the slightest. With that, he takes a single sip of the tea. It hasn’t steeped long enough, be even so he knows the water was too hot for the old leaves. It’s bitter and leaves an unsettling acidic taste in his mouth. He takes another sip.  
  
“You could have made another choice. The Jedi must be important to you. After all, you still wear the sign of a student,” She observes, and Obi-Wan grabs at the braid in question with his empty hand, having momentarily forgotten it was there.  
  
“Oh.” The syllable falls from his lips as he does, “Yes, I suppose.” He glares at the table like it’s personally wronged him. “I’m sorry that your reunion isn’t in more joyous circumstances,” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he’s talking out of his ass again, “I–you gave up so much and trusted Qui-Gon, and,”  
  
“Surely you can’t think that’s your fault,”  
  
“No, no. It…” _Is,_ he wants to complete, but doesn’t want to subject a near stranger to his own hopeless wallowing, “I’m sorry.” He repeats, instead.  
  
“How could that be your fault?” She asks softly, shaking her head at the apology with genuine confusion in her eyes. Obi-Wan takes a shaky breath, collecting himself. If he just pretends this is a report he’s delivering to the Council, he can separate himself from the events enough to explain them.  
  
“There was a duel.” Shmi nods, Anakin must have told her that much, at least. “I wasn’t fast enough to help.”  
  
“I see,” Shmi offers, taking a long sip from the mug and looking contemplative. “Well, that doesn’t seem like something you could have control over. This person you fought, you defeated him?” She asks, and it takes Obi-Wan aback for a moment.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And he was unable to hurt anyone else?”  
  
“…Yes,”  
  
“I’m deeply sorry for your loss, Obi-Wan, but…it seems you’ve saved anyone else from suffering the same fate. You should be proud of that,” Shmi says, and Obi-Wan feels absurd for reveling in the comfort that sentiment provides him with.  
  
“Anakin is strong, Shmi,” He stumbles out ungracefully, carefully omitting any hypothetical prophecies, “I promised Qui-Gon that I would take care of him, that I would train him, but – I’m not a Knight, and Anakin is older than usual and I don’t think they thought that he would be able to adjust. They said no. Well, first the Grand Master of the Order said no. When I left Naboo, it was before my master’s funeral and the celebration that the Queen and Senator both asked us to attend. I thought the Council would take me more seriously. I’m afraid I may have damaged my case, though. I was a grieving and reckless Padawan, and it demonstrated every reason my name had not yet been submitted for the Trials.” He quotes nearly verbatim, not thinking about if Shmi understands exactly what that means. He doesn’t want to go into that topic any more in depth than he has to.  
  
“For what it’s worth, I hold you to no obligations with Anakin. You have done well by us and have done much more than we could have ever asked of you. If you would like to go back, you should,” Obi-Wan shakes his head, about to respond, but Shmi continues before he can. “Master Qui-Gon has asked a large task of you. You are fairly young yourself, and Anakin’s already learned much from you. No one would blame you for returning home,” Obi-Wan ducks his head sheepishly at the implicit praise. “We’ll be just fine.”  
  
“There is so much more I should teach him. Unless, well… unless you would prefer me not to.”  
  
“You are free to do as you wish, Obi-Wan.” She says with so much sincerity Obi-Wan’s chest aches. He doesn’t know what he _wants_ to do, only what he feels compelled to do out of obligation to Qui-Gon and duty to the will of the Force. “You don’t need to come to a decision right away, of course. Although Anakin does seem quite attached to you already, so I do hope whatever it is you choose, you’ll stay in touch.”  
  
“You’re very kind,” He says after clearing his throat.  
  
“I just want to give you the same courtesy that you’ve afforded me with,” She says, gesturing to the bactapatch now fixed on her arm. Obi-Wan scratches at his collar subconsciously at the implication.  
  
“You should have been freed the first time we were on Tatooine,” He starts, though the truth of it is that it should have never been necessary to free her to begin with. “You’ll have to forgive my late master; he had a habit of getting tunnel vision.” Obi-Wan meagerly defends, but Shmi just smiles.  
  
“I would have much rather known that Anakin was safe. It would have been worth it.” _Safe._ Is Anakin safe? Obi-Wan sighs. It’s only fair that he divulges his concerns with Shmi, even if he himself doesn’t fully understand them.  
  
“I’m not sure if he’s safe. I don’t know how to explain this, but I sensed – I don’t know – a danger on Coruscant a few days after we returned. It’s part of the reason I left so suddenly. I felt like we needed to leave immediately,” He hopes that conveys some of the feelings he’s had well enough. Shmi nods. “The Council knew I was planning on departing, but still wanted to discuss it with me. I left without telling anyone,” Obi-Wan pauses before correcting himself, “Well, I enlisted the help of an old friend, but aside from that.”  
  
“Anakin says you met Jango in a diner,” Shmi says with a smile, amusement and disbelief present in equal measure. Obi-Wan takes another measured sip of the bitter tea and forces down a laugh. Hearing someone else say it makes the absurdity of it all the more real.  
  
“Yes, lucky timing, I suppose. Though why he was there is beyond me,”  
  
“Dex has good caf,” Comes Fett’s voice suddenly from the other side of the room, “I don’t think that’s overly suspicious.” He adds, which only makes it that much more suspicious. Fett looks quickly between Obi-Wan and then to the direction of where he’s been sleeping. Obi-Wan has enough sense to know when he’s being kicked out of a conversation. Fett probably has to talk to Shmi about where it is that they’re going. He takes a long sip of his tea – officially emptying the cup – before standing with an exaggerated sigh.  
  
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” He says, a little bit out of spite, because Fett really could have just asked, as he leaves his mug in the sink.  
  
“Thank you, Obi-Wan.” Shmi says, offering him another small smile despite their last topic of conversation. He nods once in recognition, unable to accept the gratitude but too dejected to fight it in earnest, before turning away.  
  
With nothing to do, he settles on trying to meditate again. At this point, the extra effort can only help him; it’s less meditation and more complete dissociation, though, not that he’s being picky. Whatever relief he can get from his racing thoughts he will gratefully accept. He doesn’t know long he’s stared vacantly at the interior of the room around him, nor is he particularly cognizant when he sits up and grabs the lightsaber hilt abruptly. His thoughts tumble and make it impossible to rest, the never-ending hum of _later_ screeching to a stop and turning to _now_. He has to face this _now_ , he has to ask himself what he wants to do _now_ , he has to come to some conclusion _now_ or he’s going to lose his mind. Obi-Wan paces a few strides back and forth across the room, then wanders into the small ‘fresher.  
  
_You should be proud._ Shmi had said. He looks at his reflection. It looks like he’s aged years in the past weeks. How can he be proud of this? Obi-Wan Kenobi is headstrong and self-righteous at most times and anxious and overly cautious in the others. Despite that, Qui-Gon had truly thought he was ready for the Trials. If the timing was wrong between his admission of that and meeting Anakin, then it is no one’s fault. Their master-apprenticeship was unorthodox at best and strained at worst, but Obi-Wan couldn’t have learned more from another in the Order. He supposes this is an appropriate final lesson: to blindly follow the call of the Force with no questions asked.  
  
The truth is, he isn’t proud of himself, but maybe Qui-Gon would be. Qui-Gon who would talk circles around aristocrats and politicians with no regard for their egos. Qui-Gon who regularly ignored Council mandates in order to do what he thought was right, accepting the consequences willingly and with pride. Qui-Gon who looked at old adages on attachment and chose instead to embrace others, to collect tchotchkes from various planets and assignments, to be just as quick to brag about silly milestones in his padawan’s life as to poke fun at him for his stupid mistakes.  
  
Yes, Obi-Wan Kenobi isn’t proud of himself – but just maybe Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn would be, and maybe that can be enough for now.  
  
He is not, and will most likely never be, a Jedi Knight proper. He does not know where it is that his path lies, but maybe that isn’t the point. He feels gut-wrenchingly empty and lost and afraid, and despite this, he somehow feels at peace with his decision. A hum somewhere that he’s doing the right thing, and that while many choices are before him, this is the only one firmly rooted in the Light.  
  
_We’ll make a champion of the Living Force of you yet, Padawan._  
  
He ignites the saber and cuts the braid hanging over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of notes on this sucker:
> 
> • I have to be real with you all right here and right now. All of the numbers in this chapter? Please don’t fact check them I’m winging it.
> 
> • Also don’t look too closely at my chronology within Bounty Hunter…We’re going to ignore that Montross actually bugs Slave I after Malastare and this takes place just before Oovo IV. I’m surprisingly distressed about this. (But Rosie, you say, that scene had nothing to do with anything! You could have easily cut it! … And like, okay. But maybe I just wanted the boys to bond a little bit.)
> 
> • I am so mad that hydrospanners are fix-all tools you all have no idea
> 
> • This is also good enough a time as any to mention that Qui-Gon Jinn is my favorite Jedi, full-stop. Nothing but love for him in my house and home. I know it shows. I'm not sorry.
> 
> WHEW. Okay, that's all.  
> When I tell you I entered a fugue-state and wrote this, I mean it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me rolling up a week later than intended...oops!

Somewhere between Tatooine and the present, unnamed space along the Corellian Run, routine creeps up on Jango. It hasn’t even been four full standard rotations since retrieving Shmi, yet the ungodly hour of morning – that once saw him silently checking his ammunition stocks and bounty postings to keep his hands busy – has turned into a repeated seven-step process. The regimen cropped up without his expressed permission, which he would be willing to ignore except that doing so has been made significantly more difficult when it’s so apparent and painfully episodic. It is as follows: Jango wakes up. Shmi, either already awake for some reason or having woken up at a similar time, looks at him like she owes him something and asks if she can at least fix breakfast. Jango refuses, vehemently, because it feels inherently wrong to make the woman do anything for him after being forced to serve others under threat of death. When he tells her as much, she sighs and argues back; he acquiesces that she can get some caf going. They sit and talk about plans for the Skywalkers. Kenobi crawls out of whichever cranny he’s holed himself up in to think or wallow or whatever it is he does. Jango takes his leave.  
  
It’s only been four mornings, but it’s the pattern without fail. The most interesting thing that Jango’s done in the past ninety or so hours is stop for fuel (and food since, lo and behold, it’s difficult to sustain three extra people on what was already his depleted supply) at an outpost near enough the hyperlane to be worth it. At this point, he’s all but muted the internal whining asking himself why he did this – especially when he looks at the credits racking up – he might have a reputation as being heartless, but he isn’t a monster. He can’t just leave them stranded in space. He’ll tie up the loose ends, bid them adieu with as little ceremony as necessary, and be on his way with a solemn vow to never do anything this stupid again, kid or not.  
  
Currently, they’re on the planning step. It’s turned less business-oriented and more idle conversation as a means to pass time. Jango finds that he doesn’t mind this, actually. Shmi doesn’t pry or ask questions, and Jango is more than happy to return the favor. It was the first morning that they plucked a location out of thin air – more Jango throwing random options out and Shmi asking for relevant information that could help inform a decision – and charted a more direct course to Alderaan. It has loose enough immigration policy that it should bend for both Skywalkers, who, for obvious reasons, have no existing paper trail aside from what Watto might have been keeping. As for Kenobi, Jango has no idea what sort of red tape laden, bureaucratic grease fire a Temple dropout will have to wade through, and he’s glad he won’t ever find out. Alderaan is Core-ward enough for him to feel confident that no bitter loser from the Rim will impede their livelihoods and undo all of this, but not close enough to Coruscant for Kenobi to go haywire again. Not to mention, Jango has some contacts planet-side that he’s been sitting on for ten odd years. He can call in a few favors and make sure the Skywalkers are seen in the right direction.  
  
After coming to that conclusion, _planning conversation_ became a loose term for sitting in each other’s company in the all-too-early hour of morning, Shmi asking periodic questions as they come to her. It still looks like she’s perpetually biting her tongue, though not through her any obvious indication. Shmi Skywalker possesses an uncanny sense of genuine confident-calm and determination that most would easily be fooled into interpreting as certainty. Jango knows better. Six years is not nearly long enough to wash the sensation of free falling into re-realized autonomy from underneath his skin. He can summon the amalgamation of emotions easily, potent as they were, ranging from euphoric relief to debilitating fear and an overarching aimlessness that he – well, maybe he would wish it on a worst enemy. All this time later, he still finds himself sifting up remnants of pieces of himself he forgot even existed. It’s a daunting and disorienting task, and no amount of kind, philosophical words can make Jango forget that Shmi is undoubtedly experiencing the same thing. He had only had to catch up on six years of a once-familiar galaxy. Shmi shared on morning three, sad smile peeking over a chipped, caf-stained mug at an hour the chrono devotes to insomniacs alone, that the last time she knew free will was at age six. Maybe that’s part of the reason Jango is quick to indulge conversation more than yes or no answers and business. It’s certainly the better alternative than Roz being right that his self-imposed isolation is slowly but surely driving him mad. He sighs. He needs to comm her back again, eventually. Keep her in the loop so that she doesn’t worry as much. She’d probably be thrilled to know he’s with _people_ who he’s talking to, more or less, and –  
  
“I know you don’t want to hear it again,” Shmi starts to speak, and Jango snaps out of the stream of thought as fluidly as possible. He processes the words fully with a second’s delay, so his sigh comes a moment late. Unfortunately, he knows where this is going. One of the few things that the elder Skywalker and Kenobi have in common is their habit of thanking him obsessively. The more they do it, the more his thoughts wander back to how many credits he’s wasting or how he’s really hauling strangers across the Galaxy all because a precocious nine-year-old asked. “But considering this is our last day with you, I just want to thank you once more.” Shmi completes. Jango schools his expression.  
  
“You’re right,” He says, not sounding nearly as frustrated as he intends to, “I don’t want to hear it again.” This whole trip is digging up parts of him that he didn’t even realize still existed, that he wishes would remain safely in hibernation – preferably forever. Because, if he’s honest with himself, there’s a good chance that if a bright-eyed kid who talks with his hands when recounting tales in Huttese approached him in a diner again, his answer would remain the same. That doesn’t change that he has a reputation to keep, and that if word gets out about this then who knows what people could ask of him, or what it could do to his social standing in the Guild, much less how future employers perceive him.  
  
“It’s not every day that someone shows such kindness, Jango,” She argues, having apparently grown immune to Jango’s tendency to completely ignore notions he doesn’t want to address by means of bluntness. “So, thank you.”  
  
“Shmi.” Is all he can say in response, more an exasperated warning than anything else. Like breakfast and caf, this is a repeated argument. The outcome of which never what he suspects Skywalker would like it to be.  
  
“One of these days I’ll be able to repay you.”  
  
“I don’t expect that of you.” Jango asserts, shaking his head and leaving as little room for further argument as he possibly can.  
  
“I want to.” She counters. Jango forces himself not to sigh again. Both Skywalkers, he learned quickly, are stubborn as banthas when they want to be. Anakin definitely takes after his mother, both in that regard and his penchant for blind optimism.  
  
“Then I won’t accept it.” He responds coolly, moving to casually take another sip of the caf before him to signal that this is where the poor excuse of a debate is ending. He couldn’t in good conscious accept anything from the Skywalkers, anyways. Technically it was Kenobi who approached him to do this in the first place, and Jango’s not stupid enough to neglect that potential future resource in his arsenal. Force-users, specifically those unaffiliated with the Jedi Order, tend to have all sorts of tricks up their sleeves that could be useful, though he’s loath to admit it. He’ll have to hash that out with Kenobi, though, and he’s not sure that the benefit outweighs the cost of that exchange.  
  
“Fine.” Shmi concedes, though Jango has a feeling that this isn’t the last he’ll be hearing of it. Under usual circumstances, if people want to argue terms with him, they quickly backdown. Jango isn’t a paragon of patience, nor is he shy about his lax respect for the sanctity of life. There are a lot of things people value more than saving a few credits, and Jango doesn’t hesitate to leverage any number of them. He finds that he’s woefully ineffective at arguing with someone who is morally upstanding – trying to pay him _more_ – and markedly unafraid of the man.  
  
With nothing left to say on the matter, well, nothing of use, Jango turns his attention back on his building to-do list. He really does need to call Roz, if only because he knows that she’s probably been keeping track of the Bando Gora hunt, regardless of if he dropped it and she thinks it’s cursed. Five million credits – and what she would get as a finder’s fee, even if it found him – is nothing to scoff at. Roz and Jango might have a casual work relationship, but it is a work relationship nonetheless, and at the end of the day a payday is going to win both of them over. From what he’s been keeping up with, he wouldn’t have much to backtrack on; it looks like no one’s taken the reward and if anything, he’s at least thrown Montross off course to Tatooine. It’s either that or take a handful of jobs in rapid succession. He’ll figure it out when he has the ability to focus in peace and quiet, without worrying that a stowaway is about to figure out a way to dismantle the _Jaster’s Legacy_.  
  
“You said yesterday that you could connect us with someone who could help,” Shmi says, breaking the silence again. The prodding conversation starter is the closest that she’ll get to asking a question that might breach Jango’s privacy, he’s learned. Jango sets his mug back on the table and nods.  
  
“Yeah, I called a day or so ago. They’ll meet you close to where we land and have a place for you to stay for as long as you need. Small, but better than nothing. If I remember right, they also have some sway in local affairs, so if you run into any trouble getting Anakin into school or something,” He trails off. Honestly, that’s something they haven’t discussed yet.  
  
“Oh, I hadn’t even thought about that.” Shmi admits, her expression dropping. “That must sound irresponsible,” She adds with a good-natured smile, though it’s a relatively transparent attempt at masking embarrassment.  
  
“No,” Jango starts bluntly, “You have a couple hundred other things to think about.” They’ve already walked through what it is that she’s specifically concerned about – getting settled on a new planet in general, finding work, finding a community, controlling a son who is allegedly blindingly strong in the Force and his new teacher who is blatantly struggling with some sort of past trauma (though he hasn’t ignited a lightsaber on anyone since that first time, that Jango knows, so little things) – all of which probably take precedence to figuring out how and when her presently illiterate nine-year-old will get into school.  
  
“Right.” She says, clearly still deep in thought.  
  
“Give yourself time,” He offers in means of advice. Stars know that’s what he needed – what he still feels like he needs. Shmi takes a deep breath and nods to herself.  
  
“Of course, time,” She repeats.  
  
The routine falls apart, moving faster than it usually does, as Kenobi suddenly makes himself known. He scratches the side of his head and spares the two of them a brief glance.  
  
“Good morning,” He greets, quickly looking away as he begins whatever his typical morning routine is. Shmi returns the addressment. Jango inspects the contents of his mug to gauge just how much earlier the former Jedi has stumbled out. There’s still half a cup left, which means it’s decidedly earlier. Normally he only has a few more sips left, perfect for ducking out of conversation. Kenobi’s stopped asking if he can use Jango’s ancient tea supply after the first time, having been aggressively informed that he’s not even sure how old the standard black tea is and that if the other wants tea that badly he’s more than welcome to risk it. Kenobi begins fixing a cup, casually leaning against the counter.  
  
“What’s this about contacts?” He asks, and if Jango had to guess he would say that it’s directed towards Shmi. Obi-Wan Kenobi has an annoyingly refined sense of hearing and more of a tendency to push for details than Shmi, and he’ll keep pushing –thinking he’s sly about it, too, no doubt – until he gets something. Jango can afford to share bare minimum details to avoid that annoyance.  
  
“You know Bail Antilles?” He inquires, unsure if Shmi is well-versed enough in Core-centric, or Republic, in general, politics.  
  
“ _Bail Antilles_ owes you a favor?” Kenobi asks, incredulous, and turns back to look at him. Jango chooses to gloss over the fact that far bigger fish than Alderaan’s big time, soon-to-be-succeeded Senator owe him, in some form or another.  
  
“Not directly. Took an early job with one of his on-planet liaisons.” He explains, promptly taking a sip of caf and swallowing down whatever else he could say about the matter with the new lukewarm drink. Once he finishes, he’ll retreat. He isn’t about to waste perfectly good caf though, especially not when Shmi somehow manages to get the ratio just so, resulting in something nearly palatable.  
  
“Oh?” Shmi interjects in a rare display of outward curiosity. Jango’s about to brush it off, but both Kenobi and Skywalker are staring at him intently with some combination of suspicion and intrigue. He sighs, he can indulge more details if it will confirm that he isn’t putting them in imminent danger; though he could say more about why it would be irrational for him to screw them over now.  
  
“Some star-jumper ran off with his daughter to the Outer Rim. He wanted me to grab her and the other girl and drag them back. It was small time,” It’s not untrue, but leaves most details to be desired. It’s probably best to respect the privacy of all parties involved, and if it isn’t relevant, then there’s no reason to divulge it.  
  
Now that Jango thinks about it, the similarities between that job and this one, if it could even be called that, are striking. Of course, that job had been official and paying, even if he didn’t end up getting the credits. He was younger and stupider and willing to throw a perfectly good hunt out the window because he ended up sympathizing with the girl – who hadn’t been abducted at all, and in fact just wanted to get out from under the man’s thumb – and instead helped the two get back to Alderaan and remain off the radar and he…well, kriff. Maybe he hasn’t changed at all.  
  
“I think it’s their ten-year anniversary coming up.” He reflects out loud, finding too much amusement in the brief flicker of confusion that interrupts Kenobi’s otherwise stoic expression.  
  
“Oh, how lovely,” Shmi muses, lacking the visual catch-up. “I’ll have to think of something to do for them in thanks,” She adds pointedly. Jango keeps himself from sighing, just marginally. There’s connotation there that he doesn’t want to dig into again this soon after.  
  
“I’m calling in a favor, it’s already out of thanks. You don’t need to do something in return if they already owe me.” Jango counters. The woman hums non-committedly. He wonders, not for the first time, how she got this far in life without her shirking unfailing kindness.  
  
“He might have a point, there.” Kenobi offers helpfully, and Jango gestures an open hand in the ex-Jedi’s direction to emphasize the point. It would just be awkward if Shmi tried to make a decade old contact into something more than it is.  
  
Before anyone can introduce anything else to waste time discussing, the familiar warning that the ship’s about to drop out of hyperspace sounds from the cockpit. Jango stares absently at the last bit of his caf before quickly deciding to down the remainder and see to it. He hesitates, remembering last second a half-hearted promise. It was more of a bargain, actually; a last-ditch effort to get Anakin to actually sleep the night before instead of keeping up aimless chatter about his protocol droid. Jango didn’t feel the need to share that Shmi had assured him leaving the droid behind was for the best, and now he fully understands just who that decision was best for. The woman can only possess so much patience. He shakes his head to himself.  
  
“I told Anakin he could help land the ship.” Jango confesses, and Shmi and Kenobi both shoot an easily discernable look at each other. He glares at them, finding he has little patience for two strangers judging him for catering to a child when he’s doing it more than enough himself.  
  
“I’ll go wake him.” Shmi offers, already standing before Jango can say otherwise. Anakin has no reason to be awake at this hour, but everyone in onboard knows that he’ll be disappointed if he loses a chance at landing the craft. He has to be up soon, anyways.  
  
When Shmi leaves the direct line of sight, Jango subconsciously takes a second to analyze Kenobi’s posture and measure the anxiety there to try to predict if any complications will arise. He’s been mostly functional and present since the first conversation that he had with Shmi, and he seems more grounded since cutting off that obnoxious braid, too, whatever that symbolizes. Kenobi is no danger to Anakin, not anymore, at least. His thumb absently taps the side of the counter that he’s leaning on, expression neutral. Jango squints at him. It doesn’t look outwardly rushed or panicked, but it’s a tic that Jango’s come to recognize, nonetheless. Whenever Naboo or Coruscant or the Jedi are mentioned, Kenobi turns to the action while he visibly thinks. It’s a small thing, one that Jango’s certain he’s only noticed because spotting any indication of nervousness has become second nature.  
  
“What’s wrong.” He asks in the other’s direction flatly. Kenobi looks genuinely confused for a moment.  
  
“Nothing, why?” He responds, immediately fixing his posture to the point of rigidness. Jango rolls his eyes at the easy lapse from aimless spacer to posh Jedi, mildly annoyed. Kenobi has no one to impress, here.  
  
“You tap like that when your nervous,” Jango informs him, nodding in the direction of the action. It’s either that or because he’s excruciatingly bored, but Jango somehow doubts that. Kenobi doesn’t do it all the time, but enough that Jango’s taken notice to it in the course of a week. He’s didn’t get good at his job by being unobservant, after all. If Kenobi had looked vaguely confused before, he looks completely taken off guard now.  
  
“I do?”  
  
“You do.” Jango confirms.  
  
“Ah. I suppose so,” Kenobi stares at the hand in question for a moment, “Then yes, I’m nervous.” Jango’s about to snap at him to mind the sass, but he’s elaborating in earnest before the remark can be said, “Not about anything particularly threatening to you.” Jango nods and leaves it at that. Kenobi looks like he wants to say something more, but unless he decides to enlighten Jango unencouraged, it will remain what it is.  
  
The ex-Jedi stares at him after the admission, and Jango follows suit, waiting for the other to break the silence or look away. His tolerance for the unbearably awkward far outweighs Kenobi’s, but before that threshold can be found, Anakin comes barreling into Kenobi’s side. The kid already has five topics of conversation in mind, and Jango watches – begrudgingly amused – as Obi-Wan tries desperately to grasp at threads to make an actual discussion out of. When Anakin starts talking about dream subjects, Jango decides to intervene.  
  
“Anakin, we have a ship to land,” He interrupts.  
  
“Oh! I almost forgot!” Anakin exclaims, finally freeing Kenobi. He disjointedly pats the kid’s shoulder in some ungraceful show of affection before shoving him in the right direction.  
  
“Don’t crash us, Anakin. We’ve come this far,” Kenobi jokes good-naturedly.  
  
“No promises!” Anakin turns to respond with equal snark.  
  
Immediately after returning to the cockpit, Jango takes a seat and starts looking at all of the notices he might have missed. There isn’t much, just some updates on current coordinates and a warning light that turns on every so often after particularly long stints in hyperspace – something about the Cronau radiation levels – that’s been broken for a while. It was more cost efficient to just deal with the inconvenience than fix the internal graphic that flicks on every time. He’ll check it out when he lands, just in case.  
  
“Aw, I don’t get to fly?” Anakin asks, sitting cross-legged in the copilot seat.  
  
“Absolutely not.” Jango responds immediately, no real malice behind it.  
  
“Come on,” The kid draws out, “I flew into the Droid Control Ship all right! And I can pilot a pod, which looks like it’s similar enough,” Both true, and both things Jango would pay to see. There’s some inherent comedy in imagining a nine-year-old outsmart the aforementioned opponents. Jango doesn’t doubt that he’s a talented pilot bordering on prodigious, but it doesn’t change the fact that the man trusts absolutely no one except himself behind the console of the _Legacy_.  
  
“Another reason why you shouldn’t, this is boring compared to that.” He counters, and Anakin sighs but caves.  
  
“When we got to Coruscant the first time, we had to talk to someone first,” He says, picking at one of the pills on the sleeve of his shirt.  
  
“Yeah, that’s normal with highly populated areas. Coruscant has heavy air traffic.” Jango explains, and Anakin nods along diligently. “Since we’re headed into the capital, it will be similar.” He adds, but Anakin has distracted himself with staring out at the planet in view, details coming more into focus.  
  
“That’s a lot of water.” The kid says, sounding utterly amazed. Even Naboo doesn’t have as many largely visible bodies of water as Alderaan does and having come from a planet with frequent water shortages and taxes imposed on the resource must be some form of out of body experience for him.  
  
“There are some planets made completely out of oceans, you know.”  
  
“Really?” Anakin asks in disbelief, standing to press his nose against the view.  
  
“Mon Cala, Manaan, Quila, a couple more that I’m forgetting, I’m sure.” He lists off as Anakin turns to face him again, eyes widening with every planet named.  
  
“Have you been to any of them?” He asks.  
  
“I’ve spent some time on Mon Cala, but not any others,” The hunt that led Jango to Mon Cala was not one he’s looking to repeat. He’s not entirely unconvinced that he can’t still taste the saltwater that lodged itself in his lungs when he coughs especially hard.  
  
“Was it cool?” Anakin asks, the next logical question to someone with his interests. Jango hesitates. Hunt aside, it was pretty much what one would expect from a planet that is entirely made of water.  
  
“Fairly. I’m not a big ocean person,” He settles on, shrugging. It doesn’t seem to compute to Skywalker, who just looks confused like he’s unable to track how a person wouldn’t be interested in oceans. He sits back down.  
  
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Anakin concludes. He swings his legs back and forth aimlessly as they get closer to the surface. “And you’ve been here before?”  
  
“A handful of times,” Jango replies quickly. He’s spent more time on Alderaan than Coruscant, but not nearly as often as he frequents Corellia or other Core planets.  
  
“Do you like it?” Anakin asks, the additional weight of the question – as opposed to his preference for ocean-based planets – apparent.  
  
“Mhm.” Jango hums in half-commitment, “You’ll like it, Anakin. I promise.” Normally, he’s averse to making promises he doesn’t know that he can keep, but he’s fairly certain that any planet is an upgrade from Tatooine.  
  
As soon as a chirp sounds from one of the monitors, Anakin is practically leaning out of the chair to get a better look at what it is.  
  
“Do we have to talk now?” He asks.  
  
“Aldera operates mostly on automated systems, so no. Normally, specific posts will hail you, especially if you drift this close near urban areas. Here, see?” He asks, gesturing to the prompt for specific ship codes on the communications monitor. Jango inputs the numbers without thinking, Anakin watching intently. “If there are any automated craft passing through it might cause problems to just land, so it’s a public safety thing.”  
  
“Oh okay,”  
  
“Normally it’s better to touch down in areas that have a lower population, that way you don’t wind up on a registry. Harder to track that way.” The moment Jango says it he regrets it; this isn’t a life lesson that this kid will ever need. It can’t hurt, though. In this instance it doesn’t matter as much. Jango will be gone soon enough and his contacts know to mind their own business. He’ll sacrifice privacy for ease of communication and certainty that the Skywalkers will get where they need to without further complication.  
  
“Now what?” Anakin asks, staring impatiently at the blinking idle icon that remains on the monitor.  
  
“Now we wait. Alderaan’s busier than Tatooine but not busy enough that we’ll have to sit here for as long as you probably did on Coruscant.”  
  
“Can’t we stay with you?” He asks suddenly, eyes wide and hopeful. Jango takes a split second to process the question. There are a lot of issues with the request, but he doesn’t have to completely disillusion the kid.  
  
“I don’t think you’d like that,” The bounty hunter says instead, sparing a wry smile in the kid’s direction. Anakin doesn’t pout, but it’s a near thing as he heaves a deep sigh that Jango has to expend most of his energy to not scoff at. Sulking doesn’t work on him, and he doubts it works on the boy’s mother or Kenobi, either. “Don’t give me that.” He says, accidentally sounding harsher than necessary.  
  
“But you’ve been _everywhere_ ,” Anakin laments, like it’s an argument that means anything. Jango is relatively sure that on the duration of this voyage, the kid had found a map of the galaxy and started asking after planets on a whim, just to ask if Jango had ever been. Being familiar with a planet is very different from having stopped on a planet briefly, though. A lot of the stops he makes are routine fuel stops or disappointingly easy bounties, so he can’t claim he knows about particular places.  
  
“Hardly.” He finally responds, but Anakin doesn’t seem to be satisfied with the response. “Anakin, you’re a kid. What I do is–”  
  
“Dangerous, I know,” Anakin completes, and Shmi or Kenobi must have repeated that a lot for him to echo it back in this context.  
  
“You’d slow me down and get both of us killed.” He says, not censoring the hard truth of it in order to better convey the point. Even so, it hardly begins to take every factor into account. Jango is good at what he does: he has some leeway in his savings to pull stunts like this on occasion – and then some – but he can’t fund three freeloaders, it isn’t sustainable. Even then, if that wasn’t an issue, he’s already going slightly mad from having so many people onboard. He needs space to breathe. Quiet. Kriff, he misses the quiet.  
  
“Sorry.” Anakin says meekly, and Jango swears under his breath somehow impacted by the utter sincerity there.  
  
“You’ve got time to see the galaxy, but you need stability, education, friends –”  
  
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” He asks hopefully, and Jango does laugh at that.  
  
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Part of him considers his own upbringing after he says it. It definitely wasn’t something that the majority of the galaxy experience, but Jaster was always too into his studies and eager to drag Jango through a more rigorous curriculum than he otherwise would have gotten (mostly because he wouldn’t have put the effort it). That’s not the point, he at least at people his age to interact with.  
  
“I know,” Anakin agrees, “I want to help people, though.” Jango wants to tell the kid that if he were to hang around the _Legacy_ , he probably wouldn’t be doing much helping. “I’m gonna free the Galaxy, one day.” He adds with so much conviction that it almost hurts. If it weren’t impossible, Jango might agree with him based on the firm belief behind it alone, but the boy hasn’t seen the worst of man, not yet. Hopefully he never will. Still, as far outlandish childhood dreams go, there are worse ones.  
  
“A tall order for a nine-year-old, how about we start with successfully landing a ship?” Jango hedges as soon as the all clear is given. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell Anakin that it’s a non-starter.  
  
For as many questions as Anakin typically formulates about any and everything, the kid is completely silent when trying to pick something up. There isn’t much use vocalizing the process anyways, it’s pretty straight forward and Jango learned through experience that Anakin doesn’t take well to being told what to do – taking it most explanations at this level to be pity or underestimation, even if the boy himself can’t name the feeling yet. Landing isn’t a particularly difficult process, especially not when a specific hangar is hailed and airspace is abnormally clear, but Anakin is so invested in the process that Jango doesn’t mention it. Now, the kid just seems disappointed that it’s not as adrenaline-inducing as what Jango imagines is piloting a pod at asinine speeds through a series of caves and open fire. Anakin, dreamer pilot that he is, will probably have to eventually come face to face with the sad truth that piloting in normal circumstances – which is to say, not through Trade Federation blockades – is dreadfully boring.  
  
“That’s it?” Skywalker asks in genuine curiosity as soon as the _Legacy_ safely docks. Jango nods.  
  
“That’s it. A little different from podracing, yeah?” Anakin nods, but his expression is bright with amusement.  
  
“There’s a little less shooting and sabotage, I guess.” He responds. Jango smirks at the dry sarcasm, way too pleased that Anakin is comfortable joking around him.  
  
“No, not nearly as exciting, then. Come on, we should get you going.” He concludes, shifting off the power entirely and moving to stand and reunite him with his mother again.  
  
Shmi and Kenobi are both sitting at the table Jango’s seen far too much of this past week, the few belongings between them already in hand.  
  
“Did you learn anything?” Shmi asks her son. Anakin shrugs.  
  
“I guess, it didn’t really look hard and Jango didn’t let me fly,” He informs them both, and Jango sees Kenobi stifle a laugh.  
  
“I can only do so much. Give me a second to check in with my contact.” He turns to check the small display unit at his wrist.  
  
“Can we possibly get a name for this contact?” Kenobi asks. Jango glances up.  
  
“Anaya or Verna, I’m not sure which will be there.” It’s mostly an afterthought, they’ll figure it out. He just wants to make they’re all in the right place. There’s a quick ping response with general location information and a message that she’s headed this way. It’s much easier to spot the _Legacy_ then to find three strangers. “Alright, well, that’s it. She’s on her way.”  
  
“Will I see you again?” Anakin asks, looking up at him with nearly pleading eyes.  
  
“You should count yourself lucky if you don’t.”  
  
“Well, that feels melodramatic,” Obi-Wan chimes in, swooping past Jango easily to, presumably, leave the ship.  
  
“I liked you better when you were asleep for two days straight,” Jango shoots back quickly, though it doesn’t come out sounding as bitter as he means.  
  
“Oh, I assure you. I would have much preferred it.” He must be feeling braver in the face of never seeing each other again. There’s no reason not to avoid stepping on each other’s toes now. Kenobi sighs. “Thank you,”  
  
“Don’t hitchhike across the galaxy again.” Jango orders, instead.  
  
“I don’t plan on it.” He agrees. Jango nods, satisfied.  
  
“Good.” Right as he says it, he gets the notification that either contact is nearby. He follows Kenobi’s path, smacking the control for the hatch to open.  
  
It’s been a long time, and Jango’s horrible at names, but he does recognize the lanky form of a sentient in a pair of old coveralls and a large sunhat nearby the _Legacy_. She waves up at him, and Jango gives a small two-fingered wave back. That’s the most communication he’s set on having.  
  
“Right.” He says, mostly to himself. Kenobi, still in front of him, turns back to nod at the word, and continues to wait for the Skywalkers. Anakin, probably excited to add a fourth planet to his list,  
  
“I’ll see you around?”  
  
“Sure.” Jango lies, and luckily Anakin is too young to catch how insincere it sounds. He really is a terrible liar. Shmi looks at him expectantly, and suddenly Jango is doing something he never thought he would, even for the kid in question. As Anakin catches up to Obi-Wan, he fishes around in a pocket for the cheap comlink hiding in there. He turns to fully face Shmi. “It’s only got one ID in it. If something goes wrong within the next twenty-four hours, call. If not, rip it apart.” Shmi laughs, but Jango’s expression remains neutral. “I’m not joking. That’s a personal line and I don’t need that contact information getting out.” She takes the comlink from him and puts it one of the pockets of her pack.  
  
“You’re a peculiar man.”  
  
“So you keep saying.”  
  
“Be safe, Jango.”  
  
“Be–” He starts to return the sentiment, but freezes. “Be patient with yourself.” He corrects, because it feels like a much more useful wish. It’s what he constantly told himself, and maybe it would be more useful hearing it from someone else. Her head tilts slightly as she stares at him. Whatever conclusion she’s jumping to, he doesn’t stop her. “It gets easier.” She nods.  
  
“I won’t thank you again–”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“ _And_ I don’t know what I can do for you. But I’m sure you can track us down if you figure something out,” Jango sighs.  
  
“Fine, if I think of something I’ll reach out.” He agrees, only to stop wasting time. She smiles, something vaguely sad there that he can’t begin to decipher before she’s continuing onwards to catch up to Anakin and Kenobi – already chatting intently with Anaya-or-Verna.  
  
Jango takes a relieved breath and goes to close the ship again and head out as soon as possible, but gets turned around when Anakin is talking again, voice too close.  
  
“Wait, I almost forgot!” He says, rushing back up to stand in Jango’s space. “Here.” The kid orders, pressing a small snippet of some sort of wood into his hand. “I made this for you.”  
  
“Thanks.” Jango says out of formality, admiring the small carving and trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be, or where Anakin even kept the wood. The implication that it was one of the only things he intended to take with him from Tatooine to the Temple for the foreseeable future is a heavy one, and Jango is acutely aware that it probably bears more weight to the boy than it does for himself.  
  
“It’s a krayt dragon, or it’s supposed to be,” Anakin explains as Jango twists the crude sculpture in his hands. At a particular angle, Jango can kind of see it – almost. It’s definitely a creature of some sort, contorted in a way so that more details could be etched into it. “Japor snippets bring good fortune, and krayts scare off Tusken raiders and stuff back home, so I figure maybe it can protect you. You know, since your job is so dangerous and all,” He parrots back again. “It’s a desert thing. It can’t really, I know, but Mom says that if you put enough intent in anything there’s a chance it’ll come true.” Jango laughs, only amused endearment behind it, and tucks the japor into one of the less organized pouches by his side.  
  
“I’ll be sure to keep it with me, then.” He assures the kid. Skywalker beams up at him before wrapping his small arms around the bounty hunter with gusto only a child can muster. Jango can’t find it in him to push him away.  
  
“And so that you don’t forget me.” The kid mumbles it like he’s embarrassed.  
  
“Not a chance.” Jango pries Anakin away to ruffle his hair in a surprise show of affection. Spending a week or so with him, hearing all of his hopeful rambling and insights, means that Jango Fett regrettably has a soft spot for the kid. He smiles. “Go free the Galaxy, Anakin Skywalker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe that I tricked all of you into reading 30k words of people sitting on a ship aimlessly talking? I really told myself that this mini-intro arc would only be about 15k, but here we are.  
> Great news is that now I finally get to go into the things I actually wanted to write when I started this!  
> See you all soon-ish, provided this next week doesn't throttle me as hard as the last one.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for commenting?! I have nothing eloquent to say, just know that they literally fuel me, and that I love each and every one of you. I would write a reasonable amount, but y’all are just a bunch of enablers.
> 
> This is dedicated to the infuriating flickering light in my apartment, Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5, and every single policy brief I’ve ever cried writing xoxo

The too-orange light flickers – _again_ – in time with the footsteps sounding from overhead. Obi-Wan is beginning to suspect that the upstairs neighbors are in fact rancors given the heavy steps. The light dims just enough every time that it’s necessary for his eyes to adjust and refocus, making the already dense reading material next to impossible to keep track of. His original intent was to finish scouring over the deposition in hand before the Skywalkers returned from their late-night jaunt to the convenience store across the way. It doesn’t look like that’s going to be the case, now. The light flickers with a buzzing from the wiring and a stomp from overhead. Obi-Wan groans and flicks of the datapad, resigning himself to losing sleep to make up for lost time.  
  
He’s always had a penchant for overworking himself, and it’s only gotten worse in the past eight months. _Eight months._ Obi-Wan sighs. The handful of times that he’d been away from the Temple this long before, the blow was always lessened by being preoccupied with near death experiences. Now, buried knees deep in low-level paperwork and basic Force technique lesson plans with no imminent threat on his life, an unfamiliar degree of homesickness creeps in. Keeping his head down and losing himself for scathes of time in mountains of work is preferable to indulging the quiet urge to wallow.  
  
Fett had told them in passing that his contact was involved in local affairs, but Obi-Wan had not been aware that said involvement would be enough to get him a job on good faith alone. Verna is a soft-spoken and small woman, who Obi-Wan doesn’t doubt has everyone on this side of the planet in the palm of her hand through only her genuine disposition and good humor, and the fact that she had immediately taken pity on Kenobi meant that she was willing to help him find work. Work, it turned out, manifested as becoming an overworked legal aid for a civil litigation office. It isn’t what he imagined he would be doing with his coursework, but it pays (if little) and occupies time (a lot) and didn’t require any semblance of background check (certainly unwise but appreciated). It turns out, a former Jedi Padawan is a novel thing and people in a Core planet not in imminent need of diplomatic assistance and it’s possible that Fett’s friend – a stretch of the term, but one both women use in reference to the enigmatic bounty hunter – stretched Obi-Wan’s abilities in pity. Regardless, he had asked if she knew of an opening where very little personal details and she had delivered. Maybe Qui-Gon knew something Obi-Wan didn’t, having him dig around the archives in their free time. It’s certainly relevant now.  
  
Shmi required no such pandering to get a job. A skilled mechanic whose too kind for her own good is a rare commodity, and one that few people are about to turn down, a testament to her skills with engines and people, alike. Obi-Wan doesn’t see her except for at night, since most times she heads into the small shop at the same time Anakin has to get to school. Shmi will drop him off, Obi-Wan will pick him up, and that’s how they go about their weeks. Somewhere along the line, Obi-Wan knows that he meant to find a place for himself, but had been thrust so quickly into a completely new way of life – and a work intensive one and exhausting and, the list goes on – and before he knew it, plans to finally get out of the Skywalkers hair went from top priority to lowest. Both Shmi and Anakin insist that they’d prefer him here; another body to cramp up the small apartment somehow crammed into the urban space of the outer districts of Aldera, with its botched kitchen appliances and sometimes-broken hot water and _that stupid light!_  
  
He doesn’t care if it’s frivolous use of the Force, he shuts it off with a dramatic flourish of his hand and a groan as it flickers again. Honestly, walking in a way that doesn’t disturb the electrical wiring of a building _shouldn’t_ be that difficult.  
  
…Needless to say, this is not where he thought that he would be at this point in his life. He likes to think that he would have eventually gotten involved in teaching to some capacity at the Temple, maybe years after daring diplomatic escapades on the very edge of Wild Space as a Knight – though he’s acutely aware of the rose-colored hue nostalgia paints the past experiences of his Padawanship in, and it’s also quite possible that he’s had enough _aggressive negotiations_ to want, perhaps, to actually negotiate. Eventually, he knows he would have liked to take an apprentice, himself, and he likes to think that it would have been someone like Anakin: whip smart, intuitive, and someone he can see himself being friends with down the line, as equals in Knighthood.  
  
Obi-Wan does not regret the choices that have led him to this point, it’s just that he’s always so perpetually aware of just how young he is and just how little he knows. He’s out of his depth, and every time that he’s about to enter a familiar ID and com an old friend, that nagging fear creeps back under his skin. He doesn’t care if it’s irrational (and he knows that it’s irrational), it’s a strong enough pull that he listens. The warning wanes without fail and leaves his fingers to idly tap on whatever solid surface they can find for some time after, a tic he is now infuriatingly aware of.  
  
It’s not that Anakin particularly minds his inexperience. The boy takes to the Force like a fish to the sea, finally able to put words to the sensations that he’s been aware of for his entire life. There’s only so much Obi-Wan can teach him in this setting though, the barest of basics that just begin to scratch the surface, and the possibilities seem to decrease as Obi-Wan himself becomes more and more pre-occupied during the day. Work bleeds into afterhours, and he’s not ignorant enough to overlook that it’s affecting just how much he can give to Anakin. There’s nothing that can be done, at least not now, recognizing that it’s more vital that they have solid income to sustain themselves by. He just has to be careful not to drift too far out of practice. It’s nearly impossible to keep up with katas, but he has no excuse for slipping on meditation. With more experience, maybe he would be able to find the appropriate balance between what Anakin refers to as “normal person stuff” and “Jedi-Force stuff.” He might be twenty-five whole years old, a perfectly acceptable age to be a well-adjusted and functioning adult, but his self-imposed cultural deracination means he’s still rushing to catch up on the “normal person stuff.” Well, twenty-six. That happened some time since Tatooine, he knows.  
  
That’s also why he’s had some spare time while the sun was still up. It’s quite possible that he may have severely miscalculated just how seriously Anakin is about celebrating birthdays, and when it was casually mentioned that his had come and gone without notice, the boy was vicariously mortified. He himself, having been raised in a community where recognition of the individual would always remain secondary to the greater good, failed to realize that others may give more credit to turning a standard year older than a pat on the back and a Force sensitive river stone. He’s not sure what’s more sincere: Anakin’s insistence that, culturally, birthdays are a bigger occasion on Tatooine than Obi-Wan is probably used to, or that it was the first excuse he got to eat more dessert than usual. Either way, as soon as Shmi returned the boy had all but insisted that they run out to go get ingredients to make sweet cakes.  
  
Speaking of, he can sense the Skywalkers approach before the door opens, though it doesn’t give him nearly enough to time to pretend that he hadn’t just turned off all the lights to sit and ruminate in his own thoughts.  
  
“We’re back!” Anakin exclaims as soon as he barrels past Shmi to get through.  
  
“Welcome home,” Obi-Wan offers, moving to quickly organize all of the junk he’s accumulated in the small living room so that the surface of the table is at least visible.  
  
“Go wash your hands, Ani,” Shmi requests before he can peel off into one of his patented tangents, and the boy dutifully scurries off to the ‘fresher to do as she says. “You’re sitting in the dark.” She observes, flicking on the light on and beginning the process of setting down the newly acquired groceries.  
  
“Ah, yes. For ambience, obviously.” He attempts to joke, earning some hybrid of long-suffering sigh and pitying half-laughter.  
  
Obi-Wan stands to help her organize whatever it is that she and Anakin retrieved, and the two wordlessly move around the small kitchen space, making quick work of the new supplies. It’s mostly isolated to general baking essentials – which is fine, Shmi nor Obi-Wan get paid for another week and waiting to restock in earnest until they’re properly funded is probably ideal – and it doesn’t take much time at all to get it all sorted away. There are more thunderous footsteps from above, and the re-ignited light shudders once, twice. Obi-Wan is careful to mind his expression, he’s better than getting annoyed at something so trivial.  
  
“I’ll see if I can call someone about the light,” Shmi offers, and the two finally turn to face each other to have a proper conversation, or at least something that resembles one closely enough.  
  
“I don’t think it’s a problem with the light, unfortunately.” He responds, shooting a spare glance towards their upstairs neighbors. Shmi laughs sincerely now, obviously having come to the same conclusion. She looks so tired. It must have been a bad day, but he isn’t about to ask after it unless she instigates; there are certain things that they’ve picked up on about each other over the past eight months. Shmi is going to consistently refuse to discuss anything on her mind until she knows, with complete certainty, that Obi-Wan has nothing on his, and Obi-Wan is quicker to release any sort of negative emotion into the Force, if that fails opting instead to work himself to an early grave. It creates a rather unfortunate impasse: both desperate to help the other and neither willing to indulge until it becomes too much to shoulder alone and one of them cracks from pressure. It’s only happened a handful of times.  
  
“Obi-Wan, guess what!” Anakin yells before he’s even back in sight again.  
  
“Let’s see, you still need to finish your homework because you insisted on dragging your poor mother out?” Obi-Wan asks in turn, and Anakin groans dramatically as he sits at the table, letting his head fall back.  
  
“ _Nooooo,_ ” Obi-Wan spares a glance to Shmi to share amusement in her son’s theatrics – both aware that it’s for their benefit, anyways. “Besides, it’s important to celebrate birthdays. Especially ones after such big things. You should’ve told us!”  
  
“Anakin,” He urges, trying to get him back on point and away from that topic.  
  
“Mom tell him I’m right,” Anakin urges, and Obi-Wan immediately looks to Shmi for backup. Immediately he knows it’s the wrong decision when she shoots him a regretful smile.  
  
“He’s right, you know.”  
  
“Traitor.” He mumbles just loud enough for her to hear. Even so, despite whatever Anakin may be hoping, he’s already come to the conclusion that any baking is going to wait for when the sun is up. “Never mind that, what is it that you wanted to share?” Obi-Wan asks suddenly, trying to get them back on track.  
  
“Huh? Oh! I got a _top grade_ on my Basic test!” It looks as though he’s already shared the news with Shmi, who goes about their normal nightly routine. Anakin and Obi-Wan normally eat after they get home – much to Anakin’s chagrin, because that usually means he’s left with Obi-Wan’s dismal excuse of cooking unless he decides to lend a hand – and they’ll sit with Shmi later whenever she gets home to eat. He turns his focus back to Anakin when he’s fully processed the news. It’s unsurprising; Anakin is a startlingly quick learner, even if that breakneck pace seems to still be too slow for him.  
  
“Oh? And you didn’t think to tell me that earlier?” Hearing every event of Anakin’s day is usually one of the privileges of being the person who picks him up. It’s odd that he hadn’t mentioned it before.  
  
“Well, I wanted to keep it a surprise, but then I maybe forgot. But come look!”  
  
“Alright, I’m coming.” Obi-Wan feigns indifference as he makes the short trek to the table, like he isn’t equally as excited of Anakin’s success.  
  
“Jango says I should make you learn Huttese after I pass out of the class!” Anakin exclaims, still holding the uploaded image on his school-issued datapad for Obi-Wan to see. He’s almost too distracted fully admiring how far Anakin’s handwriting has come to process what he’s just said.  
  
“Wait, what?” He asks a second too late. Surely, he misheard.  
  
“I should make you–”  
  
“Yes, yes, but who?” Obi-Wan only feels a little guilty for cutting him off.  
  
“Jango? He helps me with math sometimes.” Anakin explains, like it’s the most logical sequence of events.  
  
“Anakin.” Obi-Wan deadpans, trying to mend the cognitive dissonance between what very little he knows of Fett and bounty hunters in general and the information he’s just been given.  
  
“What? You’re bad at math.” He accuses, choosing that to be the root of the issue at hand, and Obi-Wan is about to respond that he is perfectly competent at math and especially math a nine-year-old is doing, but then Anakin is turning to face his mother. “Obi-Wan’s bad at math,”  
  
“I am not bad at math!” He argues at Anakin, who just smiles at him widely. “I am not bad at math,” He reasserts, turning to assure Shmi and accidentally mimicking the format of Anakin’s previous argument. The ridiculousness of it all clicks as soon as he does; he’s an adult, he doesn’t have to prove that he can do math to a literal child. “Why am I even–Anakin, you can’t just com Jango Fett because you’re struggling. Where did you even get that information, anyways?”  
  
“I’m not struggling, I’m just _bored_. Well, I was struggling because we were doing word problems and my reading still isn’t great, and you were working, and Mom was at work and so I called Jango and he helped and then he started teaching me crit–crypt-cryptography?” Obi-Wan isn’t even aware of the level of math required for that, let alone where to begin actually thinking about application of it. Force, maybe he is bad at math.  
  
“Anakin, I’m sure he’s a busy man. If you want to move ahead in your courses you should ask your teacher,” Obi-Wan tries to reason in terms that will make sense to the child. Never mind the inherent danger and mind-boggling mystery of it all.  
  
“He doesn’t seem to mind.” Anakin grumbles, evidently taking Obi-Wan’s concern to be disappointment. Shmi remains uncharacteristically silent, standing with whatever leftovers she pulled out. Something is _really_ wrong. Her tired stare is vacant, default smile present but clearly absent. It’s the trademark look of one of the few times she’s cracked. Obi-Wan won’t let that happen – if it weren’t for the other matter at hand, he would be figuring out some way to shoo Anakin away to ask after her. Speaking of the matter at hand, he’s let the pause in conversation go too long. Shmi seems to come back into her body and meets his stare, confused. He turns his attention back to Anakin.  
  
“Where did you even get his contact?”  
  
“Um, about that,” He responds sheepishly, averting eye contact.  
  
“ _Anakin Skywalker,_ ” Shmi intervenes with a sigh. There’s no malice behind it, just exhausted resignation. “You should know better.”  
  
“I’m sorry! I was just looking for stuff to tinker with,” Obi-Wan is lost in the semantics of the conversation, the outsider to some critical piece of information that he can only guess begins and ends with Shmi having acquired a point of contact. He shoves down the sudden bitterness he feels at not being uninformed as soon as it surfaces.  
  
“Ani, that’s no excuse.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” He repeats. “It’s not like I ended up pulling it apart, not when I saw there was an ID listed.”  
  
“You shouldn’t call strangers–” Obi-Wan interjects.  
  
“Jango’s not a stranger.” Anakin snaps, like he’s been personally offended.  
  
“You didn’t know it was Jango,” And that’s the real mystery, that Anakin is using math help as a ruse for what was probably nagging curiosity to figure out whose contact information his mother had. That and the fact that the two have apparently been in touch frequently enough for it to actually turn into math help.  
  
“It wasn’t hard to guess.” Anakin mumbles, the result of cracking under the pressure of being scolded by the other two manifesting as frustration.  
  
“You shouldn’t have gone through my things,” Shmi does sound marginally defensive, now, only recognizable from months of coexisting together.  
  
“I know, I’m sorry.”  
  
“I forgive you, but next time you should ask.”  
  
“I know,” He repeats, “Does this mean I can’t talk to him anymore?” Shmi and Obi-Wan share a questioning look, deferring to each other’s opinion. He has no idea how to answer that. It’ll have to be Shmi’s call.  
  
“I think that’s a better question for Jango.” She answers. Anakin’s expression falters as he visibly mulls over the response, but then he nods sharply.  
  
“Okay. I can ask him, then.”  
  
“That’s a good idea. I think _I_ am going to go wash up.” She concludes, placing the remainder of her food back in the conservator. She didn’t eat. “I’ll be back,” She swings by Anakin to place a kiss on the top of his head and be on her way. Obi-Wan is vaguely aware of his fingers starting to tap the surface of the table. He quickly clenches his hands to stop.  
  
“So…cake?” Anakin asks hopefully after Shmi disappears. Obi-Wan abandons the previous train of thought. At least the single-word question confirming the boy’s priorities.  
  
“Wouldn’t you rather wait until we can all partake? You’re going to have to go to bed soon, and your mother might be a little tired. Besides, isn’t it supposed to be for _my_ very belated birthday?” Obi-Wan is careful with his phrasing, knowing Anakin is more likely to respond well to altruism and appeasing other’s needs – that, and making the choice himself.  
  
“Oh. I guess I hadn’t thought about that. Yeah, we should wait.” He confirms, bouncing as he shrugs his shoulders. Then, after a moment, seems to remember a previous conversation. “You did say we could do some Force stuff today,”  
  
“If I recall correctly, you have homework to finish,” He responds. It’s yet another reason he feels as though he’s doing a disservice to Anakin; having to balance between so many lives means their formal practice is uncoordinated and irregular at best, with very little opportunity to create a legitimate schedule.  
  
“Only a project that’s due at the end of the week! I’ll work extra hard tomorrow, I promise!” Anakin pleads, and Obi-Wan feels guilt settle in his stomach. He had said that they could, but to be fair, he had said it _before_ Anakin begged to leave so late with Shmi. Anakin should finish his homework and get rest, it’s already late. Still, there’s only so much of a fight he can put up when he’s looking up at him like that.  
  
“Alright, alright,” He concedes, and just as a smile threatens to split Anakin’s face in two, adds: “But we’re working on meditation,”  
  
“Can’t we work on something cooler?” By “cooler,” Obi-Wan knows that he means literally anything else. Anakin struggles finding peace in stillness and is more inclined to write it off as boredom than lack of discipline.  
  
“Meditation is one of the most important skills you can have, you know that.” Obi-Wan repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. It very well might be, in fact. Anakin huffs a breath but quickly resets his expression.  
  
“I know. I don’t mean to sound like I don’t want your help, I’m just not good at it.” He explains.  
  
“I didn’t immediately take to it either, it requires practice. So that’s what we’re going to do, and I’m going to help you.” Obi-Wan says with a smile, hoping it fully conveys his understanding. Anakin nods, standing to follow Obi-Wan across the room.  
  
He sits on the floor beneath the window, crossing his legs and resting his open hands on his knees, waiting for Anakin to do the same. When he’s settled, Obi-Wan closes his eyes and focuses in on his breathing. They’ve at least started this process that he has full faith Anakin knows how to enter a light trance. He waits patiently for the other’s presence in the sort of in-between of total awareness and the Force. Anakin takes longer to reach the same place as him, but after a few minutes he’s normally able to achieve it. It doesn’t seem to be coming as easily to him tonight, though. Obi-Wan opens his eyes to measure his fidgeting – a sure way to gauge the boy’s headspace.  
  
“Focus, Anakin.” He breaks the silence when Anakin shifts his shoulders.  
  
“I’m _trying_!” He half-whines, half-laments in return, eyes snapping open. Obi-Wan sighs. He never had as many issues settling into meditation as Anakin does, though he’s aware that it might be because he has a particularly average connection to the Force. Perhaps it’s that Anakin is _too_ present within it that a challenge arises. Focusing must be nearly impossible if he’s aware of everything around them at all times.  
  
“You’re overwhelming yourself. Try to zero in on a single sense or signature, you don’t have to be aware of all of your surroundings right now.” To be fair, Obi-Wan isn’t sure if that’s something Anakin _can_ do. He isn’t content in silence unless he can keep his hands occupied, so there are even odds that it will result in the intended outcome or make him even more restless.  
  
“But what if I miss something?”  
  
“Then I’ll tell you.” This seems to satisfy him enough, and Obi-Wan waits for Anakin to sink into the light meditative trance first, this time. He tries to meet the boy where he is, but it’s a flighty sort of serenity, one that’s likely to topple over at any moment. As subtly as possible, he attempts to take both of them a little deeper, just to balance the other. He allows them to remain there until Anakin is ready to go further.  
  
“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says out loud, pitch set to complain. Obi-Wan doesn’t open his eyes, instead taking a pointedly controlled deep breath.  
  
_You would learn quicker if you stopped talking._ He tries to convey over the fledgling Force-bond they’ve begun cultivating at an alarming rate – probably another testament to just how strong Anakin is. He’s not sure if the full message is received, but he doesn’t need to look to know that Anakin has thrown his head back in exasperation, a wave of frustration and disappointment being returned in response. Obi-Wan does his best to mull over the emotions as they’re projected; it’s oddly familiar, though not in this context, and usually Anakin is quick to share its origins en route back home in the afternoons. Unfortunately, a genius child who is eager to make friends and possesses little knowledge of Core niceties is an easy target for mean-spirited kids. Anakin must know that Obi-Wan’s thinking is looking into the projected emotions because he all but flinches at the intrusion.  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Obi-Wan asks outright, dragging both of them out of the space within the Force they had been occupying. Anakin has not yet learned how to release negative emotions into the Force, and the longer he holds onto them the more difficult it will be for him to continue on. That isn’t to say Obi-Wan and Shmi haven’t had multiple conspiratorial conversations about ways to solve this problem.  
  
“It’s nothing,” Anakin insists, but his fingers drift to one of the cuffs of his sleeve that he’s nearly rubbed through. “I don’t know. I was having such a good day, I just wanted to forget about it.” Obi-Wan can remember that feeling all too well.  
  
“Then we can forget about it, if that’s truly what you would like to do,” He offers, wanting Anakin to talk to him on his own terms. There’s little worse than being forced to confess underlying inhibitions. In any case, it doesn’t take much persuading for Anakin to feel inclined to share with Obi-Wan.  
  
“People say I’m obnoxious and poke fun at me and stuff. I don’t know, I think they’re right. I’m really trying to fit in, I just can’t seem to turn it off, you know? I mean, I never seem to do anything right.” He stumbles out. Obi-Wan nods along as he speaks.  
  
“Anakin, you do plenty right. I bet no one else is learning cryptography for fun, or can race as well as you do, and I know that no one can put things back together again like you can,” Obi-Wan is careful not to include Anakin’s proficiency in the Force. Since he’s struggling tonight, he’ll take it to be a blanket statement on his abilities as a whole. “It’s difficult to hear people say those things about yourself.” He adds, trying to remember everything about his negotiations courses – not that he’s negotiating, just that he’s trying to prove he’s listening, that the two are on common ground, that Anakin, more than anything, is heard. “Do you want me to talk to someone about it?”  
  
“No! No, I mean. I don’t mean to complain, just. I don’t know.” He pauses, looking up at Obi-Wan with some indiscernible expression. “Do _you_ think I’m obnoxious?”  
  
“On occasion you can…lack decorum,” Obi-Wan responds as carefully as possible, knowing that Anakin will sniff out a lie all too quickly.  
  
“Decorum?” He repeats, like he’s trying out the way the word feels in his mouth for the first time.  
  
“Ah, yes. Etiquette, more or less. You don’t know what is expected behavior in certain situations, which is no fault of your own.” He clarifies.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“But don’t worry, my padawan,” He continues on, very pointedly using the endearment because he knows it makes Anakin happy, “There’s a time and place for it, and as long as you know when to disregard it, I have no doubts that you’ll be just fine. Regardless, it certainly doesn’t make you obnoxious.” Anakin seems to think it over for a moment.  
  
“I don’t want to make anyone upset.” Obi-Wan nods, taking a deep breath as he considers the sentiment. If anyone understands being too entangled in trying to alter people’s perceptions of himself and responses, it’s Obi-Wan Kenobi. Realizing that it’s impossible to do so was a hard-earned lesson that only came with age – being cracked over the head with it so often that it finally stuck – and even then, it’s easy to forget.  
  
“You can’t control other people’s actions, nor are you responsible for them.”  
  
“Yeah, but I can control mine. Or I should be able to, at least. I know you always say that there isn’t any emotion, just peace,”  
  
“ _There is no emotion, there is peace,_ ” Obi-Wan corrects swiftly.  
  
“Right, but I can’t just _let go_ like you.” Anakin finishes. It takes an inordinate amount of self-control to keep Obi-Wan from laughing. _Letting go_ has been steadily growing more and more difficult. Anakin needs to know that he can reach a goal, not that his supposed teacher can’t even follow his own advice.  
  
“Meditation can also be used as a time to reflect on your emotions. Letting go can be difficult, especially if you don’t take the time to recognize what you’re feeling in the first place. The goal is not to disregard your emotions, but to understand that they are inevitably fleeting.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, the word _hypocrite_ is thrown around carelessly. “You aren’t somehow unworthy of the Force simply because you feel emotion, it’s how we approach it that matters.” He concludes.  
  
“You promise?”  
  
“I promise.” He pauses a moment, then reaches his hands forward in a silent request for Anakin to take hold. “Here, let’s try again. We can work through it together.” He offers, and Anakin nods eagerly. Obi-Wan begins the long process of nudging Anakin’s emotions into view and helping sort them, sinking both of them deeper into the embrace of the Force.  
  
It’s difficult to keep track of time when he’s helping guide Anakin so overtly through his own meditation, and he hardly even registers another presence enter the same room until she speaks.  
  
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Obi-Wan blinks back to full awareness, turning to face Shmi as she speaks. Now that she’s had a second to herself, she looks more balanced. It’s a relief to see her more like herself. “But it’s quite late. Anakin should get to sleep.” She finishes.  
  
“Right, of course.” He responds quickly, turning his attention back to Anakin and gently prodding him back into full consciousness. “You did well.” He reassures him quickly, and Anakin shoots him a dazed and tired smile. Obi-Wan’s forgotten how exhausting the early stages of figuring out the most basic of Force-skills can be. Anakin has no short supply of thoughts to process before he can begin using meditation to regain energy. He must take Obi-Wan’s praise as a sign of improvement – and he is improving, just not at the rate he would like – because he turns to look up at his mother.  
  
“I’m getting better,” He boasts, rubbing tired eyes.  
  
“Oh, Ani. You have no idea how proud I am of you. You’re working so hard.” She praises. “It’s late, though. You need to get to bed.”  
  
“What time is it?” He asks, and in the time it takes for Obi-Wan to remember where a chrono even is around here, Shmi is already answering.  
  
“It’s past eleven, far too late for you to still be up and about.” Force, that late? Obi-Wan knew he lost track of time, but he didn’t think they had been focused for that long. Anakin looks almost shocked at the realization, and Obi-Wan smothers down amusement. “Off to bed with you, now.” She shoos. Anakin spares Obi-Wan a quick tight-gripped hug.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I’m always here if you want to talk,”  
  
“I know.” Anakin responds, like it’s simple as that, before dipping away to embrace his mother.  
  
“Good night, Anakin.” She says, a less than subtle jab to get him to scurry off, while returning the hug just long enough to not rebuff it entirely and shoving him off not unkindly in the direction of his room. He obediently turns to leave.  
  
“Oh, and happy late birthday, Obi-Wan! Next time I’m gonna remember and make us do something.”  
  
“ _Anakin,_ ” His mother stresses.  
  
“Love you!” Anakin calls back towards both of them, making something tighten in Obi-Wan’s chest. He wants to respond with a warning, make sure Anakin remembers the difference between _love_ and _attachment_. But Anakin isn’t a Jedi, he doesn’t need to worry about that, and anything that he may need to be wary of in terms of potential possessiveness his mother has no doubt already addressed.  
  
“Love you, too. See you in the morning.” Shmi replies with far more restraint than her son, amused but no-nonsense.  
  
“Sleep well,” Is the response that Obi-Wan settles on returning in lieu of repeating the words back, hoping the sentiment reads clearly. Obi-Wan is not a Jedi, either, but he still walks that path. He sighs. He should be more careful.  
  
With that in mind, his energy turns back to the mess he’s made of their common space, trying to make it at least appear to be more organized than it actually is.  
  
“Will you be up much longer?” She asks from where she’s rummaging in the kitchen. Obi-Wan hums affirmation, finding the particular datapad he needs. Work, not personal; though it’s doubtful there’s much of a difference anymore. “Take a moment and sit with me, will you?” Obi-Wan immediately laughs, quickly taking a seat at the table.  
  
“I suppose I can do that,” He was going to anyways, still worrying after her. She follows shortly thereafter, holding the plate of food she had left earlier.  
  
“I needed to shower and think before I could stomach any food,” Shmi explains quietly, a small offering of her internal thought processes. Obi-Wan had been trying to keep his expression from indicating his concern, but he must have failed.  
  
“Are you alright?” He asks.  
  
“Much better now.” She explains taking a quick bite of whatever it is she’s scavenged up. “I…haven’t been treated like that since Gardulla’s. And then someone asked why I didn’t just refuse service, and I honestly didn’t know that I could. It’s silly, it just got me thinking.” Obi-Wan is momentarily caught off guard by how easily the admission comes, but simply nods.  
  
“It isn’t silly.” He insists. His imagination can’t begin to think up what sort of scenario she could be talking about – he’s not sure if he would _want_ to be able to. “Can I help?” He asks, trying to time it before she can take another bite of her food.  
  
“No,” She shakes her head, “No I think this is something I have to figure out for myself. But–” Shmi hesitates, smile falling from her face for the first time in the conversation, “Talk to me? Just about anything. How’s work going?” She requests not for the first time in eight months.  
  
“Sure, yes, of course. Work is…it’s well enough. I’m not sure how much my sleep schedule appreciates this new case, and I’m not sure if the defendant has a leg to stand on. The more I read into it, the less inclined I am to believe so. It would be better for him to take the settlement – it would certainly save me some work – but that’s up to the actual lawyers to decide.” He starts rambling, trying to think of more to share to help get her mind off of whatever happened today. The fact that she felt this way and still indulged Anakin’s whims speaks volumes of her character. Obi-Wan has no idea how the woman can possess such endless patience and sincerity. The least he can do for her is ramble on as she eats her late dinner. “Which they probably won’t ever decide, meaning I’m stuck digging through court filings and desperately scrounging up potential discoveries for the next foreseeable future. Including tonight,”  
  
“Of course, you are. You know, one of these days you’re going to accidentally take over the whole firm and still not understand how it happened.” He knows that she means it as a compliment, but this is one of those repeated conversations that the two of them have.  
  
“I don’t have a degree.” He responds flatly.  
  
“These people don’t seem to pay much attention to that. Besides, you mentioned that you were invited to that Senatorial nomination ceremony – that’s a big deal, right?” He freezes, having almost forgotten that small event on his agenda.  
  
“Oh, yes. I suppose so. I’m trying to figure out the angle of that, though,” Obi-Wan says. There’s a personal dilemma there, though, that he knows Shmi is aware of. It’s not that Obi-Wan isn’t grateful to have been invited to such a formal event, it’s just that he’s painfully aware of how out of place he will be. He’s spoken with Bail Organa a handful of times – purely by circumstance and never intentionally – and the two have gotten along well enough, but the chances that Organa himself, and not the full House and whoever they deem important enough to have say, is cultivating the invitee list himself is close to none. Which means that someone very purposefully wants him there, even if it is as a platonic plus one to a shareholder of firm. He’s spent too long integrated into interplanetary conspiracy to not recognize just how strange it is.  
  
“Is it so impossible that you’ve simply made a name for yourself?” Shmi asks, the same point that she had made when he first confessed his concerns. It’s meant to be reassurance. It worries Obi-Wan more than anything.  
  
“I’m just a legal aide, Shmi.” She sighs, taking one of the last few bites left on her plate. Obi-Wan clears his throat, quick to change the subject to appease both of them.  
  
“Your coworkers seem quite fond of you, is all I’m trying to say.”  
  
“And I’m grateful for it, it just feels strange. I’m sure I’ll hear more soon, though. I’ll be sure to let you know when you wind up being right so that you can gloat.”  
  
“Oh, you know how I love to gloat,” She responds in equal humor, moving to clean the evidence that she actually ate dinner with a yawn. Obi-Wan stands to fetch his work, deciding that he’ll get more done out here than the small not-quite-listed-as-a-room room he’s claimed for himself. “Try to get some rest, will you, Obi-Wan?” Shmi requests as she begins to take her leave, placing a hand on his shoulder to draw his attention back to her once more.  
  
“Hm? Yes, of course.” He half-heartedly lies. Shmi sighs dejectedly, well-aware that this is a battle she will not win.  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow. And Anakin is right, don’t think either of us have forgotten that you hid your birthday from us.” Obi-Wan fights the urge to roll his eyes; there are some moments when the Skywalkers are insufferable.  
  
“I wouldn’t say _hid_ , it just wasn’t relevant,” He trails off.  
  
“At least you put more effort behind this lie,”  
  
“It’s not a lie! It’s a, a strategic half-truth.” Obi-Wan points out, aware of how needlessly argumentative he sounds.  
  
“And you wonder why your coworkers love you,” Shmi shakes her head before kissing the top of his head – the same way she does with Anakin – before turning away. “At least take a break, at some point.”  
  
“That, I will do.” He concedes. “Sleep well, Shmi.”  
  
“Of course. Good night,” And with that, the apartment is filled with only the white noise of distant activity elsewhere in the building and the faint, nearly non-existent hum of appliances.  
  
It doesn’t take long at all for Obi-Wan to find his place back in his research, and the second he does it’s like a pseudo-meditation; that is to say, easy to lose track of swathes of time. Instead of Shmi pulling him out of the flow, though, this time it’s the chirping of one of his comms. He scrambles to reach it before the caller decides to give up, working to unbury it from everything else.  
  
“Kenobi.” He greets, assuming it to be someone _somewhere_ regarding work.  
  
“ _Interesting. I assumed I would be leaving a message, given the hour on Alderaan._ ” Obi-Wan blinks wearily at the flickering image, trying to place where he knows the caller from. It’s on the tip of his tongue, somewhere lurking in the back of his mind, and he opens his mouth to make small talk until he figures it out or it’s revealed to him. “ _No matter. I have much I would like to discuss with you, if you have the time._ ” The not-quite-stranger addresses. Obi-Wan careful to maintain his composition as he thinks about a response. He thinks he’s figured it out, but…  
  
“Yes, no. I apologize for my brusque introduction, I am available now. How can I help you?” He must be drunk on sleep-deprivation, it’s the only explanation for what he’s seeing.  
  
“ _In which case, it seems we have a great deal to catch up on, grandpadawan._ ” Sleep-deprived, yes. That must be it, because there’s no other reason he would be receiving a transmission at 1am from none other than Count Dooku himself.  
  
The light above him flickers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s ready for some dignified classism? Yeehaw! Space elitists!
> 
> Also peep those new tags. I’ll try to update them (within reason) as different arcs begin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your comments and all of your interaction. You guys are the best.
> 
> Sorry in advance about the Star Wars: Bounty Hunter reference drops. There's a frankly absurd amount in here, since I'm cherry-picking parts of it as my canon of choice.

“And then I was accused of _cheating_ , just because I can add fractions in my head!” Jango, elbows deep in the inner mechanisms of an extensive city-wide security system, offers a half-committed sound of recognition in response to the grievance; his attention equally split between the high-pitched complaints in his ear and the mess of wiring and disjointed switches at his fingertips. Really, were the assholes who built this place incapable of figuring out a better way to organize circuitry? Surely this is a spark hazard, at the very least. Though, the guts of the higher-class security system probably weren’t assembled with the intent to be accessed by non-droid hands – which is to say, anything but scomp links. “I mean, it’s not my fault that the others can’t add without writing it out, right?” The kid asks, fishing for affirmation.  
  
“Hm?” Jango hums the request for repetition, minorly distracted by trying not to lockdown an entire private cellblock. Anakin has a knack for calling at the wrong time, but after the past few months that the bounty hunter has had, he’s not about to complain about receiving welcome distractions. Jango’s auditory processing catches up a second before Anakin can begin the lengthy process of repeating himself. “If you know how to do it, then it should be no problem to write it all out.” He answers, knowing full-well that it isn’t what Anakin wants to hear.  
  
“But I don’t even have to think about it!” The kid, predictably, admonishes. Not even a week with Anakin and Jango somehow managed to memorize the exact facial expression paired with that specific tone, even all this time later able to envision it clearly.  
  
“It’s about knowing the process, not knowing the answer,”  
  
“Then why do we get graded on just the answer?” Jango freezes, that’s…actually a very good question. He tries to think up a response that will satiate the other, but any in-depth attempt is quickly extinguished by the reminder that he is, in fact, on a schedule – and a tight one at that. Turn off cams for five minutes, open the cell, split from the tibanna gas mining colony with his hands clean of any residual favors he may owe, score officially settled with the target in question. In and out. If he could just find the right connector.  
  
“You know who probably has a good answer for that? Kenobi.” He asks and answers in one breath, not averse to pushing Kenobi under the speeder for all questions about abiding to the powers that be Anakin may have. Jango isn’t the best to ask that kind of thing anyways; Stars know Jaster was the sole sentient who could boss Jango around with no explanation like that. Although, if Jaster were still around he would beg to differ, no-doubt claiming that Jango’s always had issues with authority regardless of where the orders come from and what reasoning is given. Kenobi, on the other hand, has lived his whole life crushed at the base of an entire hierarchical order, and is probably more than well-equipped to walk Anakin through the mental acrobatics required to mend the rift between being controlled and being _willingly_ controlled.  
  
“I don’t want to bother him, though.” And that sounds about right, because Anakin has learned the hard to be fiercely cautious when it comes to interrupting anyone who has any semblance of control over him. That might also be one of the reasons Jango caved embarrassingly quickly and told Anakin to reach out whenever. There’s something dangerously – grounding? Fulfilling? Nice? Nice. He’ll stick with that – about being able to help guide a well-meaning nine-year-old through mundane tasks. If he looks forward to the near daily comms from the kid, then that’s not something anyone else needs to know. Forget about how he’s going soft and how, at this point, the vapid conversations about daily life and whatever obscure subject Anakin manages to get him talking about are the only things keeping him sane. He’ll deny that he smiles thinking about it to his grave.  
  
“But you’re fine bothering me?” Jango teases after a second. It sounds more serious than he means it to, disjointed focus making it more difficult to accurately get intent across. Concern creeps into the forefront of Jango’s mind when Anakin doesn’t respond, connected strictly to the conversation at hand rather than the back paneling he just uncovered in the innards of the system. Anakin non-verbally hums something over the line that sounds like suspiciously like _I don’t know_ as Jango makes quick work of the bolted-down paneling as soon as he finds the hidden ridge. Someone really didn’t want this to be found.  
  
“I think it’s starting to worry Mom.” Anakin states after a moment. It does little to ease Jango’s concern.  
  
“What is?”  
  
“She says he works too hard, and he’s starting to project again without meaning to, like before, but not as bad, you know?” Jango doesn’t answer the question, immediately recognizing it as rhetorical based on the new tone Anakin is speaking with, “And I don’t think he sleeps anymore, but Mom doesn’t really, either, and Mom works too hard, too, and neither of them talk to me when I ask about it and both of them are trying to make me better off and I can’t even help either of them because I’m wasting my time doing stuff that I already know how to do stuck in kriffing school,” He rambles.  
  
“Hey, watch your mouth – ah, _karking hells_!” Jango spits out by accident, bright flash of numb pain igniting across his fingers – power couplings don’t give half a thought to the protective layer separating his actual hand from the current, but why would there be a power coupling in a security system? Unless it’s routed to more than just this particular sector, or more than just the security system. That complicates things.  
  
“Jango?” Anakin asks when the man doesn’t bother elaborating the outburst.  
  
“Yeah?” He returns, fishing out a miniature circuit jammer he’d really wanted to save for something more climactic than this.  
  
“Do you need to go?” Anakin asks, and Jango knows that it’s because Shmi and Kenobi had both warned the kid about calling while he’s busy. If Jango were preoccupied, though, he wouldn’t have picked up the line. So long as it’s not a firefight, he can split his attention well-enough.  
  
“No,” He answers simply, offering no further explanation as he plants the jammer and quickly pulls his still numb hand back to avoid whatever sparking might kick back. He shakes out his numb fingers, trying to get blood flow back. That might be a problem later. “It’s not your job to provide for your family and you’re learning plenty more than you think you are.” Jango eventually says in response to the main topic of discussion.  
  
“But I could _help_ ,”  
  
“You could, but – one second,” Anakin doesn’t ask about what pulls Jango away from conversations anymore, so the boy just offers a non-committal sound of recognition and waits as Jango finally disconnects the cameras – the lights shudder off with an imposing buzz that definitely doesn’t mean anything good – and well, shit. He tripped the whole power system. It’s a little more attention-pulling than he would like, but he’ll just have to work faster. He adjusts his HUD accordingly so that he can at least see which direction he’s going in; it’s a good thing that he memorized the schematics of this place beforehand. “That’s not your job.” He concludes finally, not bothering to even try covering up his – admittedly – sloppy handiwork as he turns from the system. It’s glaringly obvious that someone was tampering with it, anyways.  
  
“I guess.” Anakin concedes, but still sounds concerned. The kid has a heart too big for his own good. That, along with intrinsic desire to help literally everyone that shows him the faintest amount of friendliness are one day going to get him into trouble. It’s not surprising that he would be concerned about both Kenobi and his mother, but normally even when the kid is concerned, he’s more upbeat than this.  
  
“Something else is bothering you.” Jango accuses, finally leaving the condensed security room and breaking into a quicker pace in the near-total-dark. Three turns in (left, left, right) and Anakin takes a comically deep breath before finally indulging him.  
  
“Obi-Wan is leaving.” If Jango weren’t on a schedule and possibly being pursued by either sentients and/or security droids, he would freeze.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just for a week,” Anakin rushes out, signaling the beginning of an explanation. So, not permanently. That makes more sense. What Jango knew about the ex-Jedi realigns with what’s apparently true. “He has to be back in time for some fancy work thing that he’s stressed about, even if he won’t tell me much about that. Mom knows more about it than me,”  
  
“Right,” Is all Jango responds with, hoping Anakin will take it as the invitation that it is to keep talking. It’s not that he cares, per se, just that it’s strange. Stranger still that Anakin wouldn’t have been able to pick up on all the details by now.  
  
“I think he’s gonna be seeing an old friend or something, I know he’s at least been talking a lot to someone he knew. Or who knows him. But he keeps doing that thing where he just talks around it and never actually talks _about_ it. I don’t think he wants to go, but Mom says that we should trust him and not pry. I don’t know, I just know that _I_ don’t want him to go,” Jango takes in the information as critically as one can while maneuvering hallways in the dark. Kenobi had made it very clear to Jango that he had no intention of reconnecting with anyone from his time as a Jedi, and he’d seemed quite adamant about it, too. That means someone somehow tracked him down. It would be less concerning if Anakin wasn’t so audibly worried. The kid has absolutely no sense of self-preservation, so his intuition is troubling, to say the least. Not that Jango has anything at stake here.  
  
“Kenobi can handle himself. He beat a Sith assassin, remember?” Jango asks in an attempt to comfort him. He turns to check his location quickly.  
  
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Anakin agrees with a yawn, right as Jango turns into the room he was looking for this whole time. The backup power only supports a few of the functions in here, namely the line of emergency lights that are placed over the doorway – probably there in case someone tried something like this, so maybe it’s a good thing Jango pulled more attention to the security room – and the faint blue glow of a pin-pad placed at the cell. It’s not particularly fail-safe, especially when Jango disconnected all of the extra security measures.  
  
“Hey, I do have to go now." He explains quickly, “Go to bed, it’s too late for you to be up there, anyways.” Jango orders.  
  
“Fine. Be safe, okay?” Anakin requests.  
  
“You got it. And Anakin?” He starts, double checking that he’s in the right location before quickly pulling one of his Westars from its holster with an unnecessary flourish, strictly out of habit.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Just show your work next time.” He hangs up the call before Anakin can counter, and then ungracefully sends a blaster bolt into the control panel, kicking the door in.  
  
Even with the auxiliary lights, it’s difficult to make out much more than shapes. The silhouette of the prisoner stands, in no visible hurry and not nearly grateful enough that Jango’s gone so out of his way to do this.  
  
“Took you long enough.” Zam quips, moving past him and leading them back into the winding halls. Jango seriously doubts that she knows the directions out of here. He was under the impression that she had been out cold when they brought her in.  
  
“You should’ve done the Oovo break cleaner.” Jango immediately scolds. He read the HoloNet reports of the prison break-in and subsequent riots – which directly contradicted the information that she herself had given him, he notes bitterly – and it was amateur mistake after amateur mistake. It was only a matter of time before someone managed to drag her in. That’s the danger with taking non-Guild sponsored bounties.  
  
“Yeah, well, you know what they say: live and learn.”  
  
“Great. Because our score is officially settled.” He doesn’t quite snap, but it’s a near thing. As a general rule, Jango doesn’t entertain anyone who claims they have dirt on him. After being nearly ripped to shreds by an undead hivemind, though, he was inclined to agree that he did actually owe Zam Wesell one. Emphasis on the past-tense.  
  
“Can our score be settled _after_ we’re actually out of this place?” She asks, somehow maintaining the same disinterested and vaguely bored demeanor that she’s possessed since their first meeting on Malastare. That was somehow one fiasco after the other, too, with Zam cashing in a gig and Jango after intel. Jango’s had some shit luck this year.  
  
“Fine.” He grumbles, quickening his pace so that he can lead them out of here.  
  
Jango has never been to Bespin before, and while the interior design preference of choice is apparently stark white nothingness, the sleek minimalist structure does very little for making navigation any easier. They should be out of the security bloc soon enough, assuming the power doesn’t kick back on or someone fixes the cams, inevitably putting Jango himself in hot water with whoever it is that’s trying to pick up the pieces of Oovo IV. As a Clawdite, Zam can shift into whatever she needs to get out of here without attracting attention, so surely the only reason that she’s sticking with him even now is because she doesn’t know where she’s going. He takes another turn and pauses, trying to hear anyone on their tail. If this keeps up, then he’ll be inclined to think it’s a trap, and that starts making everything so much more complicated than he wants it to be.  
  
“You really don’t talk much, do you?” Zam observes, doing very little to mask the sharp bite of obvious criticism to it.  
  
“Sorry, is there something you want to be talking _right now_?” He asks aggressively, gesturing one hand to the darkened halls they’re wandering through, as soon as he’s certain the voices are too far off and too many halls over to hear the conversation. There’s an alarm going off nearby, now.  
  
“Now that you mention it, yeah! I get the whole, menacing and secretive Mandalorian thing you’ve got going – it’s a good schtick, too, I mean you can’t beat the classics tropes – but,”  
  
“You better hope this has a point,” Jango interjects the second she pauses.  
  
“You never told me what you were after on Bogden. You hound Sebolto on Malastare, kriff off to Tatooine and hound Gardulla, and I’m willing to wager that Roz’s station had something to do with whatever you were after,” She trails off as Jango shoots out another panel to a door into a main corridor. Outland. That _was_ his fault, wasn’t it? Roz had told him that the Bando Gora was no good, and Jango kept pushing – even when the universe was shoving him in the completely opposite direction – and Roz paid for it. Kriffing Bando Gora, kriffing Tyranus, kriffing _Montross_. Jango hopes those undead atrocities ate him alive.  
  
“…It is mind blowing to me that you think right now is an appropriate time for this,” He answers finally. He’ll have time for self-loathing later.  
  
“So, there is an appropriate time?” Zam prods, apparently very intent on testing just how far Jango’s already thinly stretched patience can reach before snapping.  
  
“Yeah, never.” He doesn’t care that he sounds bitter, he knows he sounds bitter.  
  
“I saved your life.”  
  
“I told you. We’re _even_.” Immediately as he says it, the lights flicker back up, the alarm still blaring in the direction of security. “And we’re about to have company soon,” The cams must have clicked back on, because as if on cue, the poor sap tasked with hunting them down is rounding the corner, flanked by a handful of security droids. It’s the worst response to a small-time prison break that Jango’s ever seen, and he’s been doing this for a while.  
  
“I don’t have any weapons on me,” Zam complains, looking at him expectantly. He knows that look, saw it on Tatooine after busting her out of Gardulla’s. No way is he about to lend her one of _his_ weapons though. If she wanted to fight her way out of here, she should have thought about that before getting her weapons taken from her.  
  
“Tough luck,” He offers instead, “Keep moving, if they’re using droids then there are probably more of them coming. We’re almost out.” Miraculously, she obeys. Jango takes a second to be grateful that Westars are built for speed for the umpteenth time as he fires three quick shots, ducks back into the corner of the hall to watch two stray enemy bolts scorch the clean white wall to soot, and fires two more – one for good measure at the camera out of principle.  
  
He breaks into a sprint to catch up to Zam again, the hall before being one of the last turns and turning into a path that is now a pretty lengthy straight shot, assuming they don’t get overrun by droids. If he were going for stealth, he never would have killed that sentient officer – it’s much easier to escape when people don’t hold a grudge for collateral – but luckily, he’ll be off Bespin soon enough, and Zam isn’t in a position to complain about his methods. Zam is, however, about to complain about _something_ , because without the scarf that normally covers her face, he can see her expression all too clearly twist up.  
  
“We haven’t spoken in five months, Jango. Five. And this whole time I’ve been trying to wrap my head around what kind of impulsive bastard goes on such an obviously dangerous and lucrative hunt only to turn around like that. I followed you because I was curious, and then you what, give up? You and everyone else can call me a rookie all you want, but even I know that Jango Fett doesn’t drop hunts, and he sure as hells doesn’t fail any of them.” If Jango veers off more abruptly than need be, she doesn’t need to know. Zam trips over her feet to catch up.  
  
“I don’t need to explain myself to anyone, and certainly not you,” He snaps. His attention is locked on one of the grates by the floor. This isn’t the way he came in, but it’ll have to do. At least he had planned for this particular contingency. Jango has had enough refastening and fastening paneling today to last a lifetime, and hopefully this will be the last time he has to for the duration of this particular fool’s errand.  
  
Hydrospanners are useful but clunky to carry around. Still, most bolts give way to them. This is no exception.  
  
“After you.” He offers as the covering – also white, and really, who thought this was a good aesthetic choice? – clatters on the ground.  
  
“You’re joking.” Zam dead pans.  
  
“You’re welcome to stay behind.”  
  
“Do you even know what’s through there? Because it doesn’t look like ventilation shafts.” She gripes, craning her neck to get a better look.  
  
“It’s a giant floating city. It’ll either be another room or a freefall.” He explains impatiently, fighting the urge to just physically shove her through. It’s obviously not a freefall, but even so she makes a show of rolling her eyes before finally propelling herself through. Jango doesn’t bother explaining that the city actually uses airflow through rooms rather than actual vents. There’s so much about this place that, as an occasional security consultant, makes him seriously question the intelligence of whoever runs it. As a bounty hunter running a semi-rogue hunt, it just makes his life easier.  
  
Jumping down after her, he quickly takes stock of the new location they’ve arrived in. It’s bright, with large floor to ceiling windows that ignite the room in the orange of the quick sunset. They need to get moving again before the whole city is sent down here after them, but at least there are no more labyrinthine halls to maneuver their way through. They really must have been underestimating Zam if they threw her in a place that easy to escape from. The door sweeps open to a main atrium and Jango slows his pace to blend in with the crowds. As much as a man armed head to toe in Mandalorian armor and clearly stocked with firepower can, that is.  
  
“You said they, those _things_ , were digging through your head,” She leaps back onto the previous conversation topic in hushed tone, at least courteous enough to not pull attention to them. Jango’s chest tightens and he’s pushed off balance just at the mention. He had said it because it was all he could think about when she had helped him up back on that moon, not because he particularly wanted to share it.  
  
“Wesell.” He warns.  
  
“So, I manage to light them up, save your skin, you get a call and – what, that’s it? One comm and you’re suddenly done?” She pushes. Jango is quickly running low on what very little patience he had walking into this. Zam’s curiosity is infuriating.  
  
“Yep.” Is all he says. Maybe if Anakin hadn’t commed, or if Roz was still around, Jango wouldn’t have rethought it, maybe he would be figuring out what to do with five million credits right about now. But Roz’s dying wish was for him to find something to live for, and she’d always been a sap, but dying on some moon with eldritch horrors sifting through his thoughts like a public library was the farthest thing from honoring that. Then Anakin _had_ called, and Jango couldn’t even be mad at Shmi for not scrapping the comlink like he had instructed her to because the kid was so irrationally happy to talk to Jango. He doesn’t know what happened with the Bando Gora, he isn’t sure of Montross cashed in on it or what, and at this point he doesn’t care.  
  
“I’m sorry.” Zam says as they step into a lift, staring off to the clouds.  
  
“You aren’t.” Jango corrects quickly, forgetting that she can’t see the way his stare sharpens from beneath his helmet. If what she says is true and she really has been thinking about it for this long, then it makes sense that she would be so insistent on hearing the end of it.  
  
The two of them step out onto the landing platform, the wind immediately accosting them.  
  
“You’re right. I’m not.” She agrees belatedly with a smile, then pauses, taking a quick look at whatever ship on the platform she’s undoubtedly decided to steal. He’s already well aware that she’s one of the hunters who drifts a little too closely to becoming a full-blown criminal. “You know, Jango, there are a lot of horror stories out there about you, but deep down I think you’re actually a good person.” Zam says, crossing her arms and letting her head tilt. He sighs, people are getting a little too comfortable throwing that sentiment around.  
  
“I pay my debts. That’s all.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have been able to hold you accountable from whoever they were gonna dump me to rot.” She argues, turning back to him.  
  
“You couldn’t have.” He agrees after a second. It certainly would have been easier for him to just ignore it, but this made it possible for him to repay her on his own terms. It’s cleaner that way.  
  
“So. Friends?” She tries. Jango stares at her blankly for a few moments.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Right, gotta keep up the image. I get it,” She sighs, leaving them in blissful silence for a short-lived moment. “Where do you think you’ll be off to now? I’d hate to cross your path as rival, since you know, we aren’t friends.” Jango rolls his eyes, but the question does rattle around his mind for a second. He’ll go back to what he always does – or, what he always _did_ , before he met Roz. He’ll keep a close eye on bounty postings, go after the ones that sound interesting or time consuming and have an acceptable payoff, and take it day by day. But right now?  
  
“I’m…going to get a drink.” He answers before he can think better of it. It’s been a long time since he’s stuck around anywhere after a job – the incident at Dex’s has made him exceptionally careful with where he loiters – and it’s probably not wise to stick around, but kriff it. “Don’t try to hot wire that ship until I’m out of here.”  
  
“I guess I can work with that,” She says with feigned indifference, “But in that case you better hurry up and get out of here. There’s only one other ship that I _know_ doesn’t have the tracking technology to screw me over in the long run based on model alone, and it’s yours,”  
  
“No.” Is all Jango can think of saying, because the goal is to not cause a scene, and he does suspect Zam has some semblance of self-preservation enough to not try anything funny with the _Legacy_.  
  
“Don’t worry, your reputation is still intact enough that I know it would be a death wish. Get out of here, Fett. Oh, and thanks for the save – I would’ve made it out of there on my own, eventually; I mean that was some really shoddy security.”  
  
“I’m sure.” Jango responds sarcastically, but Zam does have a point. It was _really_ shoddy security. He doesn’t bother with a goodbye, turning to leave before the other bounty hunter can drag him into something again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this week, but I wanted to get something out there! School and work and life, oh my. You know how it is. Thank you for stopping by!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps roof of fic* this bad boy can fit so much dramatic and heavy handed symbolism in it!
> 
> yeah, per usual I have literally no excuses.

If he’s being completely honest with himself, Obi-Wan has no idea what he was expecting his Grandmaster to be like. It’s through no fault of their own that they had never interacted previously, what with Dooku’s sudden departure from the Order just weeks before Qui-Gon officially took Obi-Wan as an apprentice. While the circumstances of their newfound communication are strange, to say the least, there is a distinct comfort found in conversing with someone of a similar background and vague relation. Obi-Wan was not expecting communication between the two of them to be so frequent, nor so informal. They don’t discuss why either of them left the Jedi Order, or anything of real substance regarding their current situations. Instead, they reminisce on general Temple memories, mull over menial things like preferences in public policy filing, or discuss active bills on the Senate floor, mirroring each other’s dry cynicism.  
  
The Count had explained that leaving the Order was an isolating experience and that he understands the loneliness and uncertainty that Obi-Wan himself is experiencing. Apparently, Obi-Wan’s name was tacked onto a recent case he helped on, just barely, really. Just why it came across Dooku’s desk is beyond him, but regardless of slim odds, it did. Dooku insists he had figured the former Padawan must have departed from the Order, so sought after contact information; it would explain why the man had commed him on his work line. Even in light of the peculiar and unlikely circumstances, Obi-Wan is grateful for knowing that it is eventually possible to regain his balance and adjust to life outside of the Order. The additional guidance on how to reach that point certainly doesn’t hurt.  
  
So why did the nagging fear and panic and frantic whispers to _run before it’s too late_ return not three days after they instigated communication?  
  
It lurks at the back of his mind, just barely beneath the surface, and keeps his tongue in check, forcing him to maintain a safe distance between his two lives, past and present. The Skywalkers know a minimal amount about his newly acquired Grandmaster; their knowledge beginning and ending with the relation. Dooku himself, hypothetically, did not know that the Skywalkers existed. Obi-Wan knows, in hindsight, that it was only a matter of time before one of them wandered into the space he was talking. He considers himself lucky that it was Shmi and not Anakin. Shmi, he’s convinced, can befriend anyone. She made small talk with the man for a few brief moments before it was acceptable to depart again, citing her son as her reasoning. Obi-Wan had swallowed down the surge of panic as quickly as he could. From there, things somehow only continued to grow more unexpected.  
  
Obi-Wan was certainly not expecting an invitation to Serenno. Though he tried to brush it off as mere pleasantry – he had work to do and Anakin to teach and Shmi to keep company, after all – the Count had been quite adamant. Sleep was swiftly replaced with restless meditation, a desperate attempt for Obi-Wan to find the origin of the alarms sounding in his mind, frantically trying to quiet the repeating _he knows, he knows, he knows_. Jango Fett had called him a paranoid lunatic quite a few times. Obi-Wan is inclined to believe him, unable to find any other reasonable explanation that he is willing to enthuse. He remembers every interaction he had with Qui-Gon’s fallen Padawan in all too vivid detail, of the Sith assassin. The darkness is easy to place, but he has no evidence, he is still on edge; it would be unwise for him to jump to conclusions. Inner-turmoil aside, Obi-Wan’s attempts to brush off the invitation were misconstrued as nicety, it seems. Considering Dooku aggressively arranged transportation, it’s safe to say that the invitation itself had _not_ been mere pleasantry.  
  
He had not been expecting Dooku to greet him personally upon his arrival to Serenno, a relatively quick hyperspace jump on the vessel that Dooku had sent for him. Nor was he expecting the immediate panic that overwhelmed him. Panic, perhaps, isn’t the best word for the apprehension that immediately accosted him, constricting his lungs and clogs his airway. The feeling remained as Dooku began escorting him – more so _touring_ him – around his home. The place screams the Count’s title back at Obi-Wan, reminding him that his Grandmaster is, in fact, or at least in partial, a sovereign. The overwhelming dread snapped into place in the middle of the high-ceilinged foyer. Embarrassingly enough, Dooku had taken instant notice.  
  
Under usual circumstances, Obi-Wan would have never agreed to let the man help shield him. Nothing about the exchanges they have shared could be considered usual, though, and it was that or revert to the sheer panic he had felt on Coruscant, moments before departing; he knows that it would surface, too – can feel the fear pricking just beneath his skin and making his fingers twitch and want to reach towards Qui-Gon’s lightsaber still faithfully by his side. _Fear is the path to the dark side,_ he can hear Master Yoda reciting to a younger version of himself, and so he accepts Dooku’s offer. Dooku had made a valid point, after all: his instability could be from having gone so long without any sort of support in the Force. The relief is worth the intrusion, being able to think about literally anything else no small feat.  
  
“Adjusting to life outside of the Temple is difficult,” Dooku says suddenly as they continue their way through the halls. “It is different than leaving for missions, when you know you will eventually return. While I’m sure that your living companion – Shmi, was it? – is fine company, I doubt that she can understand how lost you can feel in the Force, at times.” Obi-Wan does not panic when Dooku mentions Shmi by name, his thoughts instead lingering on the conversation at hand.  
  
“I have been on edge since leaving.” Obi-Wan confirms, though it does little to convey the full scope of it all.  
  
“You have doubts.” Dooku observes.  
  
“Yes,” He answers quickly, the word escaping before he realizes it, “I have no doubt that the Force has led me away from the Temple, from the Order,” He clarifies, stopping in his tracks and looking up at his Grandmaster in the middle of the grandiose hallway. “But I am uncertain of my path forward.”  
  
“That is to be expected. You certainly seem to be keeping yourself busy, does the Force call you to what you do now?”  
  
“No, but I feel I am meant to be there. As if I am waiting for something to happen.” Waiting for what, Obi-Wan doesn’t know. For Anakin to grow up? For the Skywalkers to outgrow him? Or, perhaps the most terrifying of the options, the Sith to rise again? Dooku doesn’t seem bothered by the vague statement.  
  
“Then you do well to heed that pull.” He says, walking forward once more and past a room whose large windows bleed light into the halls. Obi-Wan glances inwards to see an assortment of various blades from various eras. The purpose of the room, given its otherwise empty floorspace, clicks.  
  
“You still practice?” Obi-Wan asks, leaping to the conclusion. Dooku, after all, still carries his lightsaber with him.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to lose my reputation as a duelist, would I?” Certainly not, though it’s not a very Jedi-like thing to say. “You have a weapon and I have some spare time this afternoon; would you care to duel? It’s been too long since I’ve been able to do more than rote exercises.” Dooku asks, turning into the room.  
  
“Oh, now?” Obi-Wan questions in return, but finds he’s possessed by his younger self, eager for a fight despite the sudden circumstances.  
  
“If you are amenable to that. It might be beneficial for you to think about something else.”  
  
“I suppose.” He says with a nod, following the logic. It’s the same reason he works into the odd hours of the night.  
  
The last time that he had dueled, or even ignited his lightsaber, was on Naboo. No, that isn’t right. He remembers, vaguely and in no great amount of detail, standing down the Sith assassin on _Jaster’s Legacy_. Wait. Not the assassin, he defeated the assassin, so it must have been the bounty hunter. Jango Fett. Memories scatter themselves along different timelines in his mind, warping truths to their whimsy. His head aches with sharp pain. Dooku’s Force presence quickly makes itself known once more, immediately helping quell the ache.  
  
“Sorry.” He apologizes quickly. Dooku does not indulge a response, merely takes his place across the room. He ignites his saber – yellow, Obi-Wan notes, as is typical for a sentinel. He is not sure what else he was expecting – and Obi-Wan does the same.  
  
“Qui-Gon’s lightsaber. I thought I may have been mistaken in assuming as much.” Dooku observes, eyebrows furrowing. The sorrow in his expression is imperceptibly deep, and it requires no small amount of self-control for Obi-Wan to restrain himself from apologizing. He was aware that Qui-Gon and Dooku’s time together had been less than typical – which may as well be the working slogan for their line, at this point – but Qui-Gon always assured him that they had been friends, in the end. Friends parted by contrasting missions and responsibilities. It is possible Dooku had only just heard of his passing when he contacted Obi-Wan. Seeing his apprentice’s saber, one Obi-Wan knows was constructed under Dooku’s tutelage, since Qui-Gon loved to boast that it was his original, might be a bit of a shock.  
  
“Ah, yes. I’m afraid I,” He pauses, wondering if admitting that he _forgot_ to return the weapon to the Temple would make him out to be a fool. He’s quick to shake the thought away, though. It might not be possible for Dooku to think less of him, after needing help shielding his mind like a new initiate. “I’m afraid I forgot to return it to the Temple after his passing.” Obi-Wan clears his throat, “Which is fortunate, because it seems that I’ve misplaced mine in my last duel.” He laughs at both himself and the understatement of the century.  
  
“Your lapse in memory is my gain, it would seem. Shall we begin?” Dooku asks with a customary salute. Obi-Wan mimics the action and settles into an opening stance. He feels off balance, somehow. His Grandmaster does not seem to notice his sudden lack of muscle memory, not sparing any strength in the blows he sends.  
  
Obi-Wan blocks as best he can, but it feels like he’s outside of his body, much less able to control it. He twists his blade to meet Dooku’s, but the other is quick to disengage and resume his barrage of fluid strikes. It’s a struggle to contort the right way to meet or avoid each slash – even with sabers on a lower power setting, they still sting to get hit by and he would rather avoid that – and his feet feel heavy with lack of recent practice. A particularly ruthless advance has him quite literally _tripping_ over himself. Before he can catch his balance again, he’s reeling backwards, fighting to find grip on stable ground again. His back suddenly collides with the floor, the wind getting forcibly pushed from his lungs. He lays there for a moment, trying to swallow down shame and turn it to humility. That’s going to bruise, and he’s going to deserve it.  
  
“ _Solah,_ ” He heaves in resignation, closing his eyes so that the midday sun pouring in from the windows doesn’t render him blind as he waits for the telltale hiss of a retracting blade.  
  
“A Padawan’s foot work.” His Grandmaster retorts, and Obi-Wan feels shame wash over him. It is embarrassing being bested so easily, he deserves what was no doubt meant to be a scathing insult. He was able to defeat a Sith assassin and now he can’t even hold his own in a friendly spar.  
  
“I’m afraid it’s been quite some time since I’ve been able to run even katas, much less taken part in a duel,” He admits. Dooku hums, offering a hand to help Obi-Wan up. He accepts it, brushing off the non-existent dirt from his clothing to try to save face.  
  
“Surely not long enough to completely forget hours of hard work and discipline,” There’s an unspoken question laced masterfully in those words. _How long have you been gone?_  
  
“Eight months.” Obi-Wan obliges, though the answer feels sharp in the absence of an actual question.  
  
“Then we will simply have to get you back up into practice.” Dooku says. Obi-Wan nods, unsure if he _can_ get back to where he was. He’s unsure if he even _wants_ to. Something about wielding Ataru with his master’s saber makes him want to be sick.  
  
“I’m not sure that I’ll be able to reach that level again. At least not with this saber.” He raises the hand the hilt is gripped in, as if exhibiting the statement. Using Qui-Gon’s feels like wearing a pair of boots a half size too large – just uncomfortable enough to be noticeable while still being functional. The kyber doesn’t resonate with him, too rooted in the ever-evasive Living Force. He can’t even really hear its hum in the Force at all. It makes it impossible to feel as if the weapon is truly an extension of his body.  
  
“If it’s a saber that you need, we can arrange that.” Dooku begins, and for a moment Obi-Wan is so caught off guard at the sheer casual tone it’s stated with that he forgets to respond. It is not a particularly cheap endeavor to embark upon. “Of course, you’ll have to get your hands on kyber yourself, if that’s what you want to alter.”  
  
“That’s a very generous offer, but–”  
  
“I ought to warn you, Grandpadawan: this is not an offer that I will allow you to deny. You may not be a part of the Jedi Order any longer, but not all who are led outside of the Order desert the Code, as such it is only fitting that you carry a Jedi’s weapon.” Dooku pauses, “Eventually, we’ll fix your foot work. Your Ataru is out of practice, but your foundations are clearly still there. Again.” He commands, igniting his saber once more and flicking a quick Makashi salute.  
  
Obi-Wan settles into familiar Ataru counterpart, though it no longer feels quite as familiar as it once did. Dooku must sense his discomfort, because suddenly he’s shaking his head to himself and taking a step forward to push Obi-Wan’s left shoulder down, himself. He hadn’t even been aware it was out of place.  
  
“And Ataru is your favored form?” He asks.  
  
“Yes.” Obi-Wan answers quickly, mostly out of habit. He never really put much thought into what form he would take up, preferring to learn as much about each one that he could. Ataru just felt like the natural choice. It would be easier to fight alongside his master that way.  
  
“How very odd.” Dooku observes but does not elaborate before initiating the second bout.  
  
Obi-Wan pays closer attention to his feet than his blade, breathing deeply and leaning into the Force. Unlike the first round, Dooku’s strikes come spaced between each other, and he more forces Kenobi across the floor – forcing him to pay more attention to his steps – with strategic jabs that have no real force behind them. Obi-Wan swallows his pride, trying to force himself to be thankful for the opportunity of focused practice rather than disgruntled that the man is going easy on him. Master Dooku was once the best duelist in the Order. Obi-Wan strongly doubts that much has changed. It would be impossible for him to face Dooku at his full strength as he is now, as demonstrated by just moments before.  
  
“You revert to form one when you are unsure of yourself.” Dooku observes as he successfully directs Obi-Wan against the wall with his movements. He had been so worried about correcting his steps, anticipating his Grandmaster’s movements, that he had forgotten to bear in mind the room itself. He sighs. He’s better than this. He had even failed to notice that his own parries and rare strikes were specifically form one.  
  
“Qui-Gon was quite adamant that I live and breathe Shii-cho before moving forward. I’m afraid I revert to old habits.” Dooku looks at him, expectant. “ _Solah._ ” He concedes, if Dooku wants to play that way.  
  
“Ah, a trait that I must apologize for, then. I regret to tell you that he picked up on that from me.” He says as he stalks back to the center of the room. Obi-Wan moves to follow but freezes when Dooku continues, “It’s a trait I’m sure you’ll probably pass on to your own student,” Obi-Wan feels his brain go blank.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“You are a teacher, are you not?” He doubles back on every conversation that they’ve held, trying to find where he mentioned Anakin. Shmi mentioned that she had a son, she did not mention that Obi-Wan was training the boy. Despite Dooku’s assistance with his shielding upon arrival, Obi-Wan instinctively strengthens them. It isn’t the best maneuver, especially not when he _knows_ the man can feel his panic, but it’s one he’ll accept the consequences of should any arise.  
  
“I have still remained in contact with some who remain at the Temple,” Dooku says unprompted in means of explanation. “Again.” He says with a salute, before Obi-Wan can question him further. _He’s lying_. The Force rings out. Obi-Wan grits his teeth to keep from saying something without thinking it through. He raises his blade.  
  
Obi-Wan keeps his eyes locked on Dooku, unwilling to make the first move as they circle each other. Dooku steps forward, breaking the circular steps with what Obi-Wan can only assume is meant as an attaque au fer, purposeful locking their blades for a split second.  
  
“You do not speak like someone who would specialize in Ataru.” Dooku observes, sending a quick flurry of slashes in his direction and forcing him backwards. Obi-Wan feels his expression drop as he does his best to parry each carefully timed stroke. The air hums around them – the newfound tension and sabers both to blame. He takes a step forward to return two of his own short cuts in riposte. It is not a form four move.  
  
“I’m not sure I follow,”  
  
“Most tend to fight in the same way that they use words. You do not. I have been dueling for quite some time, young Kenobi. The rule is seldom broken,” He elaborates but does not _explain_ , ruthlessly countering Obi-Wan’s previous moves. He parries as best he can, until he can feel the yellow blade’s heat too close to his neck. He swallows thickly, thinking about his first night on the Legacy unbidden. Is this how it felt to Fett?  
  
Obi-Wan pauses for a moment, staring down Dooku. It isn’t worth trying to continue from this position, and he’s a big enough person to accept defeat.  
  
“ _Solah_.” He says with a nod, careful to avoid the blade poised beneath his chin before it is removed. “So how did Qui-Gon speak that made him fit for form four?” He asks as they both return to the center of the room.  
  
“Like a bantha in a pottery shop.” Dooku responds immediately with a wry smile. “Again.” He adds, saluting once more. Obi-Wan does not sigh. He long outgrew responding to repetitive drills with visual frustration. Though if they keep this up, he’s afraid that _solah_ will become the only remaining word in his vocabulary.  
  
“Well, when you put it like that,” Obi-Wan says with a spark of dry sarcasm. He remains defensive as he mulls it over, faithfully parrying every strike Dooku sends his way.  
  
Obi-Wan knows very little Makashi. He knows a few katas in the form, enough to have claimed basic proficiency in his introductory saber classes, but not to the extent that his Grandmaster clearly has mastered the artform. Makashi is built on short, lethal attacks with sudden steps – a fierce offense, though with little defensive maneuvers to back it up. Does Dooku speak like that? Obi-Wan’s brows furrow in thought as he continues to contort himself and shuffle his feet to block each move. His overgrown hair falls in his eyes as he quickly turns, saber circling from in front of him to his side to catch the rapid succession of attacks. This is harder than he remembers it being.  
  
“Your defense is strong.” Dooku comments, beginning to somehow quicken the pace of his onslaught. Obi-Wan doesn’t dare attempt a counter, instead drinking in each Makashi attack and committing it to memory. For a moment, it’s easy to forget that he is not in the Jedi Temple. “Perhaps I was too quick to comment on your foot work.” He adds with another faint half smile. “There may be hope for your Padawan yet.” Obi-Wan counter thrusts, taking a single step into Dooku’s space.  
  
“Who is your contact at the Temple? I was unaware that gossip was so prevalent.” He asks, and Dooku is quick to regain his ground.  
  
“Sometimes it pays to be acquaintances with the Head Archivist,” It isn’t a real answer. As far as Obi-Wan knows, Jocasta Nu is careful with who she shares information with. As far as Obi-Wan knows, Dooku has not held contact with any Temple-bound Jedi since he was a part of the Order. “I assume he is the child of Shmi,” He asks, forcing Obi-Wan to step in a tight circle rather than block each slash. The Force hums a warning, though not regarding a strike in advance. Obi-Wan clenches his jaw unwittingly.  
  
“Yes.” He answers honestly, the single word weighing on him. Dooku will know if he’s lying, being just present enough in his mind even with Obi-Wan’s newly reinforced shields. Were he not also focused on the sparring match, he would try to lie regardless. The strangeness of the situation feels too coincidental, puzzle pieces of information connecting in ways they shouldn’t. Obi-Wan knows that he is paranoid, he also knows that until he receives plausible answers, perhaps he should keep details to a minimum.  
  
“How did you come across the child?” Dooku asks. This is not a friendly spar. This is an interrogation.  
  
“Qui-Gon came across him on our last mission.” He bites out.  
  
“Another pathetic lifeform?” Dooku questions, a hint of fond nostalgia laced in his words paired with a fierce series of jabs, forcing Obi-Wan four whole steps back based on the sheer force behind them. Like most questions posed by the man thus far, it is not merely asking for affirmation.  
  
“Yes. He was adamant about the boy’s presence in the Force.” Obi-Wan carefully does not mention just what that means, or how powerful, as he barely manages to avoid a well-placed thrust.  
  
“He is strong?” Dooku asks, trying the same move once more. This time, Obi-Wan catches it on his blade, locking them together and washing the room in an off chartreuse.  
  
“Qui-Gon believed him to be, yes.” Obi-Wan answers, disengaging with the roundabout truth. Dooku heaves what might be considered a disgruntled sigh, but the man feels far too elegant to indulge in such a thing. His aloof demeanor is reset so quickly, that Obi-Wan briefly considers that he imagined the lapse.  
  
Dooku takes a quick step back, returning to the default stance of Makashi and taking a few breaths. It makes Obi-Wan feel infinitely better that he’s putting up enough of a fight for Dooku to no longer be dancing around him. He follows suit, but the stance he settles into is not that of Ataru or Shii-cho. His weight is distributed unevenly between his front and back leg in the lunge, saber held over head. _Soresu_. Obi-Wan has never fallen back on form three before, but it does make sense; it was, after all, created to counter Makashi.  
  
“And so, you’ve decided to take up residence with the family?” Dooku asks, breaking their brief pause with another bout.  
  
“For the time being.” The hum of the lightsabers beginning to move at a quicker pace, occasionally locking, is the only sound in the room for a moment.  
  
“And the boy’s father?” Dooku asks suddenly, the duel’s pace somehow increasing, still.  
  
“That hardly seems relevant or appropriate.” Obi-Wan snaps with a quick strike.  
  
“Forgive me, I was always fond of the prophecies of old.”  
  
“Another trait you passed down to your Padawan.”  
  
“And what of his? Did his Padawan also inherit that same affinity?”  
  
“No.” He answers all too aware of how sharp the single word sounds coming from his mouth. Obi-Wan finds himself with the opposing saber set to follow through with a fatal blow. And it _would_ be fatal, Obi-Wan knows from experience. At a higher setting, it would take just one fluid movement and the blade would impale him through his center. Just one fluid movement and he could suffer the same fate as his master. The thought lodges some emotion high in his throat, and he swallows it down thickly.  
  
The two stare at each other, an unspoken conversation passing between them and battling for some sense of overarching truth. Obi-Wan deactivates his own – Qui-Gon’s – saber, though Dooku does not return the favor. Right. Obi-Wan tries to at least catch his breath before being forced to admit defeat.  
  
“ _Solah._ ” He caves, with no short amount of bitterness. “Again?” He instigates this time, eager to ask his own questions. Why is Dooku so fascinated with Anakin? Why does the prophecy concern him? Why the air of mystery and the lies? Instead, Dooku just shakes his head, finally powering down his own weapon.  
  
“Not tonight. Though Soresu, it seems, is a much better fit for you, Grandpadawan.” He says with an approving nod, as if he hadn’t just been nearly interrogating Obi-Wan. “It is criminal that they did not knight you sooner,” Dooku comments, clipping his saber back into place at his side.  
  
“They did not knight me at all,” Obi-Wan confesses, though it’s much less a confession than an easy admission. It is one of the few things that he has come to peace with. Dooku makes some sound of disapproval.  
  
“Then it is all the more shameful. If the Council had not approved the submission of your name I could understand. They rarely agree on anything. But Qui-Gon?” He shakes his head.  
  
“Qui-Gon did think me ready for the Trials, towards his death. I am headstrong, and–and anxious. It is understandable that I remained a Padawan.” Obi-Wan reasons, as he has often reasoned with himself.  
  
“Then he was blind.” Dooku’s tone is as casual as it can be as he throws out the observation. Then, he turns back to Obi-Wan, looking serious. “I have no right to ask, but I was under the impression that Qui-Gon swore off taking another apprentice.” Obi-Wan breathes through his nose. Luckily, this is a story he’s learned to condense into as few words as possible. The same, practiced ones every time. It’s an easy truth, a safe truth, even in the face of all of this uncertainty.  
  
“Master Yoda believed the Force was pushing us together. He encouraged Qui-Gon to accept me as his Padawan.” Obi-Wan is very good at leaving out details. Details such as Qui-Gon’s unwillingness to do so, Obi-Wan’s rejection and subsequent departure to Bandomeer, aging out to the Agricorps. He doesn’t mention Xanatos by name, surely Dooku knows about Qui-Gon’s fallen Padawan – he was there, after all. He _certainly_ doesn’t mention the events that transpired on Bandomeer, more for his sake than Qui-Gon’s. He swallows down the lump in his throat at Dooku’s silence, abiding by the intense stare to continue. “Master Yoda was under the impression that I could somehow help him heal.” And now Qui-Gon is dead because Obi-Wan couldn’t – no. No, he’s not getting into that right now. He lets his shoulders relax and files it away for later.  
  
“Impertinent. It is not the job of a child to fix a grown master.” Dooku responds, unconcerned about Obi-Wan’s mental debate. It halts his thoughts. No one has ever immediately responded with that, of all things.  
  
“The first year was…difficult,” Obi-Wan admits, trying to choose the adjective carefully. The first year was more than difficult, the first year probably made him start greying at age thirteen, but Dooku doesn’t need to know that.  
  
“It is a miracle that you left in one piece as you did.” Obi-Wan does not laugh at that, but he does sputter out something that he has to quickly recover as a cough. Dooku does not comment on it. “Come, we ought to get you started on that new saber.” He says, not waiting for a reply and turning to exit the room. Obi-Wan diligently follows.  
  
The days pass quickly, after the first. Dooku carves out time in his schedule to spar with Obi-Wan and is as brutal in his teaching as he is his questioning. The latter of which, after the first few rounds, dissipates to the background as Dooku’s focus shifts to correcting Obi-Wan’s basic usage of Soresu. It’s easy to forget that his Grandmaster holds the title of Count in more than just show, even with Dooku absent for a good portion of the days engrossed in whatever work he has to do. For the most part, Obi-Wan spends his days equal-parts in meditation and working on a new saber hilt from the supplies Dooku has managed to scrounge up. That, perhaps, is the most obvious display of wealth aside from the living arrangements. Around midday, Obi-Wan comms the Skywalkers and catch up with them – nothing in too much detail, which Shmi seems to catch onto immediately – and after he is able to assure himself that both Shmi and Anakin are alright, it’s almost nice.  
  
With so much time to himself, he’s finally found balance once more. The momentary and fleeting peace he would feel on occasion settles into something more tangible, more permanent. When he meditates in the mornings, he begins to sift through the various compartments he’s constructed in his mind, to clean them out and make sense of their contents, like untangling a particularly difficult knot. When he works on his saber, he thinks about nothing, allowing himself to exist in the Force. And he sleeps – not well, but at least through the night. Time passes without consequence. It’s just a week, and his employer insisted on making at least part of the absence paid time off, so the Skywalkers still have that income.  
  
Obi-Wan finally finishes his work his final night on Serenno. The hilt itself is simple, purely functional and not anything like his first constructed lightsaber, but it feels different in a way that better reflects who he is now. The bare essentials, but still individualized.  
  
“It is a hilt for a specialty in Soresu.” Obi-Wan startles at Dooku suddenly appearing behind him. He had been so focused on completing his task that he hadn’t even noticed him enter. He looks up. The man looks pleased. “It certainly suits you. You could use Qui-Gon’s kyber.”  
  
“I–” Obi-Wan starts, unsure of where he’s going.  
  
“I understand.” Dooku nods sagely. It’s a good thing that he does, because Obi-Wan can’t say that he himself understands why it feels so taboo. “Would you care to have one last drink with me?” He asks suddenly, expression weighed down by thoughts Obi-Wan’s not privy too. It’s too late for dinner, though the sun is still out due to the longer rotation time of the planet, and both of them have no doubt already eaten. Obi-Wan simply nods and allows Dooku to lead the way to wherever it is they’ll be headed.  
  
They end up opening a bottle of wine in small room with large windows that let in the sun. It’s one of the things Obi-Wan will miss about this place – Alderaan’s sunlight is warped by the cold, turning everything an almost-blue, this time of year. Serenno’s is golden and warm. The wine is dry and not nearly as sweet as the dubiously cheap, two credit bottles from the corner store by home that Shmi and Obi-Wan will occasionally indulge in. It’s probably less likely to result in a headache, too.  
  
“I have been wondering, if you don’t mind my asking.” Dooku begins, breaking the easy silence and peering at him from beyond his wine glass. “How did you leave Coruscant? Surely not openly, if you were as concerned about being followed as you claim to have been.” Obi-Wan nods aimlessly, quickly trying to find his words. It’s a piece of information that Obi-Wan had traded for learning a few of the members in Dooku’s budding coalition.  
  
“I was fortunate enough to strike a deal with a bounty hunter by the name of Jango Fett.” He manages. “Though I am aware of the inherent danger that entails.”  
  
“Ah, a fearsome bounty hunter, indeed. Fett was a formidable warrior last I heard. I can only assume that he’s grown more ruthless with time.” This takes Obi-Wan off guard, he freezes before taking another sip of the no-doubt expensive wine. It’s definitely worth more than two credits.  
  
“You’re acquainted?” He leans forward subconsciously as he says it.  
  
“We have crossed paths a few times.” Dooku is, reasonably, not nearly as enraptured with the potential conversation beginning. He takes a leisurely sip from his own glass as he stares off towards the window. Obi-Wan finds his gaze following in the contemplative silence, not nearly as appreciative of the mountainous views and the golden sunset as he would be if he weren’t so curious.  
  
Dooku clears his throat, then turns back to stare Obi-Wan down with an intensity that almost makes him flinch backwards. It’s only through tightly maintained control – control that has miraculously clicked back into place since arriving on Serenno – and training that he doesn’t do so. Instead, he tilts his head expectantly, raising a brow and waiting for the other to speak.  
  
“Qui-Gon never told you why I left the Order, I assume.” Perhaps it was meant to be a question, but there’s nothing questioning about it. Obi-Wan doubts that Dooku would have said it if he hadn’t been sending a quiet signal for affirmation. That, or making the conversation at least appear to be two-sided.  
  
“No,” Obi-Wan shakes his head as he begins, “I asked only once. He told me you were a private man but assured me that you had your reasons.” Dooku nods to himself and sighs; an act as close to resignation as Obi-Wan thinks the man can reach. He fails to recognize how this has to do at all with the bounty hunter.  
  
“You spent time on Mandalore, with its people,” Dooku does not need to ask. It was a conversation first had over an insecure line of communication. It’s possible that Obi-Wan had thought of reaching out to Satine, it’s also possible that in the weariness of over-worked sleepless nights and unknown panic, he sought comfort in the only connection that he had. It’s one of many talking points he regrets. “Surely you have first-hand knowledge on the Clan Wars.” His own brows knit together, unsure of how this is connected. Jango Fett’s reputation and Dooku’s time in the Order and Obi-Wan’s own time on Mandalore have few threadbare strings tying them together.  
  
When it’s clear that Dooku has no intent on continuing the conversation without confirmation from Obi-Wan, the former Padawan takes a tentative sip from his own glass. He takes a deep breath.  
  
“Yes. I spent the year with Duchess Kryze, along with Qui-Gon,” He adds haphazardly, the common connection between the two one of the only things that Obi-Wan is positive about being within the strange man’s good graces. “Since she is a representative of the New Mandalorians, I grew quite acquainted with their philosophy. I had many interactions with Death Watch as a result, though I cannot say in confidence that I am as knowledgeable of their way of life or ideals.”  
  
“This is no place for Jedi impartiality, Grandpadawan. You are free to speak your mind as you see fit. I can only imagine that you have done a great deal of research on the topic, both in the field and the archives. Surely you must think something of the third faction.” Dooku probes. Obi-Wan can feel his expression drop further into confusion.  
  
“The third?”  
  
“You were on Mandalore, what, ten years ago?” Obi-Wan nods out of habit. Ten years is correct, even if the mission feels like it was both yesterday and an eternity-ago. Dooku hums, contemplating something. “They did not mention the True Mandalorians, the _Haat Mando’ade_?” He asks after an eternity. Obi-Wan considers it for a moment, searching the back of his mind for the name and coming up short.  
  
“No. I’m afraid that I did quite a bit of research before embarking on the mission, too.” This seems to perplex Dooku, and for a moment Obi-Wan considers that he hadn’t researched _enough_ , that this might be a failing of his skills as a then-Padawan. Before he can apologize for the past mishap, though, Dooku is speaking again.  
  
“That is peculiar. When I last had to go through the Jedi Archives on the topic, it was rather prevalent.” Obi-Wan finds his expression mimicking his Grandmaster’s. It isn’t often that information changes _that_ drastically. Well, unless it happened before even Qui-Gon’s time as an apprentice. “So, I assume that your knowledge on the Battle of Galidraan is minimal,”  
  
“Minimal is perhaps being generous, Grandmaster.” The term of endearment slips for the first time since he has been on Serenno, but Dooku doesn’t seem to react. Obi-Wan had dug through nearly everything that he could on the Clan Wars – he had wanted to be as useful as possible, still fifteen and not quite outgrown of the incessant need to prove himself; still isn’t. That’s neither here nor there – but he hadn’t heard of the True Mandalorians or the Battle of Galidraan. _Wait_. It clicks, the purpose of the conversation. Galidraan. _Coordinates at around R-Six_. “Galidraan is where you encountered Fett?” He asks, before he can overthink his logic. Dooku nods, some emotion shadowing his features and tugging at his expression. He has been relatively closed off this whole week, but now his shields are even more rigidly in place.  
  
“Galidraan is where I first encountered Fett, yes. It is also where I first decided that the Jedi Order no longer represented the vision it claimed to.” For a moment, it looks as though Dooku is about to reach for his glass. His hand drops and he taps his fingers idly on the cleanly polished, reddish wood of the table once, twice. “My apprentice of the time and myself were given tasked with leading a defensive force in name of the planet’s governor. Fett was aligned with the True Mandalorians, at the time.”  
  
Dooku looks contemplative, adrift. Qui-Gon had informed his padawan of his Grandmaster’s preference for privacy on a few accounts, and it is a lesson that stuck with him. So, he waits. He is not foolish enough to waste what is, potentially, the only opportunity he will have to learn about the strange bounty hunter who went so out of his way for the Skywalkers. Jango Fett is a Mandalorian, then. Obi-Wan should have known better than to take the first comment about stealing armor to heart. Still, the only factions that he knew existed were the New Mandalorians – who would not be wearing beskar armor at all – and Death Watch – which would be out of character.  
  
“I see,” Obi-Wan states quietly, when Dooku still doesn’t make a move to continue conversation. If Dooku could spend the first few days prying about Anakin and Shmi, then there is no reason that he should be unable to add miniscule commentary.  
  
“He was quite literally the last of his people.” Dooku muses, though the words hold much more weight than what the tone they are spoken with implies. “Single-handedly struck down six of the Jedi forces with little hesitation before being forced to give in.”  
  
“ _Six_?” The number falls from Obi-Wan’s mouth before he can stop it. The last man standing, and he killed six Jedi? Force, what danger has Obi-Wan put Anakin in? What _was_ Galidraan? There had to have been a reason for them to slaughter the rest of the True Mandalorians, surely. He doesn’t know how he can encourage conversation further forward. “I mean, that certainly sounds…impressive,” He trails off, still trying to find his words. He trusted Fett with the Skywalkers, he left them _alone_ with this man. It’s a wonder that they didn’t wind up dead. It’s probably more of a wonder that _he_ didn’t wind up dead.  
  
“It was something to behold.” Dooku elaborates, though it somehow only manages to leave Obi-Wan with even more questions.  
  
“I can only imagine. How did he manage such a feat?” He asks, the tension in the room dissipating now that conversation is less about Dooku.  
  
“Ah, as any man might.” He pauses, for what Obi-Wan can only assume is for dramatic effect. “With his bare hands.” Obi-Wan very carefully does not react. Six armed Jedi, presumably in conflict, focusing fire on one man. “I’m not sure what happened after he was turned over to the governor.” Dooku says, eyes meeting Obi-Wan’s. Obi-Wan nods out of recognition but feels something flicker in the Force. _He’s lying_. It rings, not for the first time. He listens, commits the insight to memory and files it away for later. Obi-Wan can’t begin to imagine what it is that would make a Mandalorian give in instead of seeking vengeance.  
  
“Fascinating,” He finally says, unclenching his jaw. Jango Fett, lone survivor of a battle with enough hatred towards the Jedi to fuel a small star, is casually chatting with Anakin, the boy who Obi-Wan is partially responsible for. He silently finishes his drink, trying his best not to think too hard about. _Don’t center on your anxieties._  
  
Obi-Wan takes his conversational cues from Dooku, drifting back into the now comfortable silence. His line of sight tracks back to the mountain range outside; it’s different than Alderaan’s, he hadn’t realized that he had already grown so accustomed to the perpetually snow-capped peaks. Serenno’s summits are flat-topped, blanketed in rich green foliage whose color seems to leak into everything else, turning the valley a reflective off-shade of emerald.  
  
“It is your last night here,” Dooku begins speaking, and though Obi-Wan turns his to face him, the other still holds his gaze locked on the horizon. “Perhaps we should take a walk to truly marvel in Serenno’s sunset,” He suggests. Obi-Wan has spent enough time around aristocrats of all sorts of capacities to pinpoint the subtle boast but finds that he is unable to fault the man. It is a beautiful sunset.  
  
The walk is familiar, normally one that they make after sparring to talk aimlessly. Dooku stops suddenly at a table that Obi-Wan, despite his recent laps in the general area, has never noticed before. It must be new, but he doesn’t know when from. His Grandmaster seems to contemplate it – or, more aptly, what is on it – as he reaches down to shift a piece on a game board back to what Obi-Wan can only guess is its starting position.  
  
“Have you ever played Shah-tezh?” Dooku asks, and Obi-Wan finds himself inspecting the board more closely to discover if he has. It’s a checkered board, much like the basis for quite a few strategy games that he’s familiar with. The oddly shaped white and black pieces are unfamiliar to him, though. Dooku sits down before he can answer.  
  
“I’m afraid not.” Obi-Wan admits, taking a seat across from the Count. It’s a beautiful evening, the sun is warm against his face and the breeze cards through his overgrown hair lazily at random intervals. He drinks in the sunset, taking a deep breath and focusing on the life around him, letting the Force surround him. It’s the most peace he’s felt all year.  
  
“It’s an ancient game,” Dooku muses, drawing Obi-Wan’s attention back to the board. “Not many play it in its purest iteration anymore. Surely, you’re familiar with dejarik or Moebius, though. Qui-Gon always did enjoy Moebius, unless that changed when I left the Order,” He tacks on, and Obi-Wan begins answering on autopilot before he can overthink.  
  
“Oh, I can assure you that his affinity towards Moebius, as well as _cheating_ at Moebius, remained intact well past your departure,” He affirms with an easy smile.  
  
“Ah, well that makes this easier. I’ll explain this as briefly as possible; it is not my intention to insult your intelligence,”  
  
“I would never assume so,” Obi-Wan nods. He realizes a second too late that the remark sounds sarcastic. Dooku does not seem deterred.  
  
“Much like chess, each piece has a different set of moves. We’ll start with the ones you already know,” Dooku begins a brief explanation of the way the pieces move, and Obi-Wan scrambles to lock each description and name in memory. Beast, counselor, craft, disciple, dowager, outcast, knight, vizier – and the most important, the imperator. He needs only to bear in mind the protection of the imperator. Much like in other iterations that he is familiar with, that is the determining piece.  
  
“Since you are both my guest and a beginner, you get to make the first move.” Dooku gestures towards the white pieces before Obi-Wan.  
  
Familiarity with other iterations of the game dictates his first move, and he quickly moves a craft one single space forward, eagerly awaiting to see what sort of strategy Dooku will respond with. The early parts of games such as this are always the most fun, considering all of the possibilities silences any other thoughts in Obi-Wan’s mind. It doesn’t take long for pieces begin to disappear from the board, though, and traps to be set. He groans as he accidentally moves his dowager into a blatant set up, only realizing a moment too late.  
  
“The piece is played, you let go of it.” Dooku chastises.  
  
“No mercy for a beginner, then, it would seem.” Obi-Wan jokes, overly aware of how easy it is to fall back on dry humor with his Grandmaster. It’s reminiscent of playing any game with Qui-Gon. Towards the end of his apprenticeship, he had learned games were less about winning – Jinn was a chronic card counter and didn’t bother shielding, meaning if Obi-Wan projected at all he was destined to lose – but about how well they could play off of each other’s words.  
  
“You think far too little of yourself if you find it necessary for me to go easy on you,” Dooku says with a sharp smile as he surveys the board, “You have the mind of a strategist; you need only apply yourself.” He adds, moving his vizier to take one of Obi-Wan’s beasts. He had forgotten that the vizier could move as many diagonal spaces as it wishes, whereas the disciple could only move one.  
  
“Not an exceptionally gifted one, it would seem.” He laments, moving his own vizier so that it can take the other beast on the board. Dooku’s smile remains. It’s surreal, sitting here and watching the sun lazily drift back beneath the horizon with a man he had only heard of in passing. He takes a deep breath while he waits, reveling in the feeling of the Force all around him. He wonders idly if Dooku is still helping him shield – it would make little sense. It’s been so long and Dooku has been so busy with other things that there’s little feasible way that he would be able to. He watches as Dooku chooses his next move, fingers resting atop the carved figure adorned in armor that represents the outcast.  
  
“Why did you leave the Order?” Dooku asks suddenly. Obi-Wan squints down at the board, trying to look as unsurprised as possible.  
  
“To keep a promise.” He reasons easily, though it doesn’t seem to satisfy Dooku. “Qui-Gon’s dying wish was to train the boy.” Obi-Wan hesitates to say it. Dooku had been overly interested in Anakin initially, and he still isn’t sure what information he should divulge. He experimentally moves the counselor piece forward. “The Temple would not accept him at his age, and I am a man of my word.”  
  
“And Qui-Gon’s death?” Dooku asks in few words, continuing the game.  
  
“I’m sure you heard of the Naboo crisis. We were the Jedi assigned to the Queen’s protection. There was an assassin in Theed.”  
  
“And this is the assassin who you witnessed strike down Qui-Gon?” Dooku pushes Obi-Wan onwards, moving another piece on the board. Disciple takes counselor.  
  
“Yes. I’m sure that it was my master’s efforts that wore down the opponent enough for me to prevail.” He shirks credit even when it is not given, briefly considering his options. It’s an easy move to decide. Knight takes disciple. Dooku hums thoughtfully but does not respond to the comment at hand.  
  
“An acceptable loss,” He says to the board. Obi-Wan watches the black vizier piece set back down across the board, poised to take revenge on the knight he had just used. He works up the courage to ask his own question while trying to think of the next move.  
  
“You never did tell me why you left the Order,” He says finally, quickly settling on moving his knight out of danger. It isn’t a particularly powerful piece, but he’s very clearly losing this game. He’ll maintain whatever pieces that he’s able. “What about Galidraan let to that decision.” He elaborates.  
  
“I suppose I didn’t.” Dooku says, moving one of his crafts a single space forward to block Obi-Wan’s. Obi-Wan considers the possible truth that there is no other reasoning. The battle had allegedly wiped out an entire faction of people, so it’s…not actually that inconceivable to feel at odds with being one of the perpetrators, regardless of circumstance. He moves his last beast two spaces forward, set to capture the blocking craft in the next move, should he choose to.  
  
“It was a set-up.” Dooku says, tapping the table twice in thought and contemplating the board. Then, his eyes meet Obi-Wan’s. “The Governor was working with Death Watch. We were led to believe that the True Mandalorians were responsible for the massacre of innocents. They were not.” He says with a careful calm, and Obi-Wan can only assume that it is a rehearsed recitation of the truth. Obi-Wan hesitates before asking his next question, curiosity seizing his tongue over sensibility.  
  
“And Jango Fett?” Obi-Wan asks, moving his outcast forward. One move and he should have Dooku’s imperator in Check. The bilateral questioning suddenly screeches to a halt.  
  
“Ah, the outcast can move two-three, not three-two.” Dooku corrects, shifting the piece down one and to the right a space with an idle use of the Force.  
  
“Oh, forgive me.” Obi-Wan utters automatically, trying to quickly adapt his strategy to the pieces on the board.  
  
“You are learning.” Dooku dismisses the apology quickly and seems content for silence to settle over the board. Obi-Wan isn’t quite done questioning him, though. Not if Dooku himself got to pry truths from Kenobi this whole week.  
  
“I think I understand. Why you left, that is.” He offers in means of encouragement, but the statement introduces new questions. Had Obi-Wan been tasked with killing innocents with no discretion, would he, too, have lost faith in the Order? More so, why wouldn’t this be in the archives? And what actually happened to Fett? His thoughts tumble around as he thinks too hard about his next move.  
  
“If a small governor in the Outer Rim can set us up like that, then what does that mean for larger institutions? With the Senate being given more and more power over the Order, how can we ensure that we are truly serving as peacekeepers?” Dooku asks, himself. It does very little to ease Obi-Wan’s thoughts. In fact, if anything, it makes Obi-Wan all the more conflicted. It’s a particularly valid point. “Not to mention the negligence of properly archiving the events,” He trails off. Obi-Wan scratches his jaw, thinking. He absently moves a piece forward in some direction he knows won’t result in capture.  
  
“Is it possible that one of the masters on the same mission…removed it from the archives?” He asks, fully aware of how foolish the theory sounds.  
  
“Possible, yes. Likely?” Dooku shakes his head, “I’m not sure, but shame is a powerful thing,” Dooku moves his vizier to the opposite side of the board. “So, I left because I knew I could do more good outside the Order than within it, and know that I would be doing _good_.” Obi-Wan wants to ask what good he _has_ done but bites his tongue.  
  
“An admirable cause.” He awards.  
  
“As is yours.” Dooku says, once again moving closer to Obi-Wan’s final knight on the board. The game continues, as do Obi-Wan’s thoughts.  
  
His cause. Anakin. Even after spending most middays calling Anakin before he heads off to school, Obi-Wan still worries. More so now knowing that Jango Fett can allegedly take down six trained Jedi barehanded, yet is choosing to teach a nine-year-old math in his spare time. On top of that, even Dooku seems especially interested in the boy. How can Obi-Wan protect him alone? Not to mention Shmi. And if the boy truly is the Chosen One and people seek to strike him down to prevent balance, how could a single Order-reject prevent that?  
  
“An impressive match for your first game, but it appears I’ve won,” Dooku says, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts. Obi-Wan does a doubletake at the board, trying to track where the victory comes from. Sure enough, Dooku’s second disciple and vizier hold him in check mate. His outcast stands by to serve as a third finishing blow, had Obi-Wan moved his imperator anywhere else the move before. The piece is locked where it is, now, with no escape.  
  
“I would have won in three,” he says with smile, though he can’t help but reflect on the structure of the win. He doesn’t know enough about the game to be able to place the larger strategy behind it.  
  
“Perhaps, but you lost now.” Dooku replies, standing from the table. Obi-Wan follows suit.  
  
“Obi-Wan,” Dooku begins, watching the last waning orange of sunset dip past the mountain range. Obi-Wan looks up at his Grandmaster expectantly. “If I can be of any assistance with the boy,” He trails off, looking deep in thought. Suddenly, he turns to face Obi-Wan with a drawn-out sigh. “If you wish to train the boy, you ought to train the boy. As your nearest relation, it is my duty to help continue our line. Allow me to offer some form of financial support.”  
  
“I can’t.” Obi-Wan says, near immediately. The notion is preposterous. Sure, his Grandmaster has a title that makes him impossibly rich, but it would feel wrong to utilize it as a resource. Certainly not when Dooku had pried so much into the Skywalkers at the beginning of his stay.  
  
“I’m certain you’ll find a way.” Dooku counters, polished demeanor slipping into fondness for a moment. If it weren’t such a confusing turn of events, Obi-Wan would find himself smiling. “Take the time that you spend scraping up extra credits in overtime to practice your saber work, for Force’s sake.”  
  
“If…if you insist, then I suppose that I must thank you. I’m sure Anakin–” He begins, but Dooku manages to cut him off with a single sigh.  
  
“I think you’ll find, Kenobi, it is for the best if you keep details to yourself.” Dooku does not look at him. He does not offer anything else as he continues to walk, without Obi-Wan following. Obi-Wan gets the sinking suspicion that he would not be welcome. So, he stays and watches night fall over the capital city, left to contemplate the meaning of the cryptic exchange and the week at large.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a lot but I couldn't help myself. The week progressed in continuously worse ways and I kept returning to my working doc like "mmm no, you know what I think this needs? ancient space chess. for self-care."  
> Thanks for bearing with my self-indulgent musings. You guys are the best!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy!  
> So sorry about the wait on this one.  
>   
> First things got absolutely bonkers at work, and then school, and then I caught covid (you know those scenes in movies where the flaming hubcap is the only thing to cross the finish line? Yeah).
> 
> Anyways, thank you so, so much for your patience! Also, thank you to all who read, comment, and otherwise interact with this in general. I’m aware that it is a particularly niche thing, and your interaction means the world to me! Seriously, not to be too sappy but I reread through your comments and they really keep me going.  
> You guys are lovely.

It doesn’t take much critical thought to deduce that a storm is blowing in at a rapid pace. The high altitude of the upper-city district means the ominous clouds end up blanketing the streets in a thick, imposing fog. Jango is grateful that he’s indoors, if only because the wind is far too cold for it to be not-quite-winter. Ideally, he’ll be off before the snow gets too terrible, but it’s clear that this initial meeting is going to take more time than should ever be necessary. It’s been awhile since he’s taken any non-bounty contract, and it was all too easy remembering why the second the too-formal, low-level bureaucrat opened his mouth. A discussion that could have taken mere minutes – really just establishing some contractual bounds, confirming pay, staking out location – has miraculously turned into almost an hour. All Jango wants is some sort of warm drink and more than five consecutive hours of sleep. He’ll be pissed if he has to spend time navigating a snowstorm to reach his ship again.  
  
“I’m sure that I can trust your discretion on the matter?” His temporary employer, a human built more like a sapling, all knobby limbs and not much else, questions while glancing up nervously from his datapad.  
  
“Of course.” Jango answers without much conviction. The other nods once to himself, like he’s gaining the courage to speak, and fiddles with one of the polished, golden buttons on the high-collared blue get-up that probably costs more than his monthly salary is worth. Jango can’t imagine that the man – Honecker, he said his name was, on behalf of House kriffing Organa – is any higher up than a just-graduated intern. His nervous fidgeting is further proof of the theory, that and the dark circles under his eyes, stark against his otherwise pale complexion.  
  
“I should thank you again for accepting on such short notice,” Honecker begins, and Jango really wishes he would just conclude the meeting. There’s a lot about this that feels grossly nostalgic. The notion of taking a non-bounty job, of it being a government contract, of it hypothetically being just protection – it takes him back in time twelve years. That, and the location whose coordinates are way too high in the _Legacy’s_ log from the last time he was here. Jango didn’t think that he would ever have to purposefully avoid Alderaan. It’s not often that he receives contracts here. The pay and the personal offer made it worth it, of course, even if he does feel like the Galaxy is pulling him in dizzying circles.  
  
“Doesn’t make much a difference to me,” Jango responds when Honecker doesn’t break eye contact or continue, even though said short notice means that his night is probably going to be dedicated to discount short-order detective work. “It’s straight forward enough.” He adds, tapping the data stick now in his possession against the table they’ve been sitting at. Regardless of the time constraints, it is easy enough, too. A two day stretch back on Alderaan – back in Aldera, even – is well worth it for the pay that really only a monarchy can supply for something so simple.  
  
It’s also possible that anything holding him back from taking this contract was quickly outweighed by sheer curiosity.  
  
“We still aren’t sure who submitted the anonymous tip, but we’re looking to find out,” Honecker prattles onwards, apparently finding yet another train of thought to follow. Jango doesn’t really care who submitted the tip that got him a quick job – that’s the nature of anonymity, after all – even if the whole situation is in and of itself a puzzle Jango’s itching to solve. He’s always thought that foul play is to be expected at large, formal events like this senatorial nomination ceremony, so it’s strange that their security isn’t well-equipped enough as is to handle whatever tip they received. Maybe that’s why they ended up reaching out to Jango, of all people. Maybe they are expecting the need for someone more accustomed to backdoor activity than the average guard. Or maybe they need someone more ruthless. Either way, Jango’s happy to oblige.  
  
“Is there anything else you would like to discuss?” Honecker asks with a tinge of nerves attached to it, like he’s afraid Jango actually will want to discuss something. Why the man would be afraid of such a thing when he’s the one who has been drawing out conversation is beyond the bounty hunter.  
  
“No. I’ll go over the documents you’ve provided and see if I can dig anything up beforehand. If not, I’ll keep an eye out during the event. But it could be a false call-in,” Jango remembers quite a handful of fake threats used as mediocre scare tactics back from when he used to do this more often.  
  
“It was…oddly specific,” Honecker confesses, scratching at his jawline. “We have protection already in place for normal occurrences, but figured it best to have someone who is more equipped to handle more, uh,” The man pauses, clearly trying to find words that won’t offend Jango without realizing that Jango doesn’t actually care whatever it is that could possibly complete that sentence, “Shady business. I mean no offense,”  
  
“It’s the field of work.” Jango says flatly, in little mood to indulge whatever Honecker wants out of that sort of remark or half-hearted attempt at diplomacy.  
  
“Right,” He replies awkwardly, syllable drawn out with the sole purpose to occupy the silence that would otherwise swallow the room. “Again, the actual documentation has been provided. We don’t normally receive threats as brazen as this one. Or the news of them, at the very least. It was suggested by an external contact that we invest in outside aid to cover all of our bases. That way, if there are multiple threats, we won’t be caught off guard.” Honecker offers in means of explanation, but it only raises more questions. Jango shouldn’t ask. It’s not his business. It’s just a job. But the details don’t line up.  
  
“Alderaan isn’t known for its political unrest.” He says anyways. House Organa has been stable for quite some time, and while it would be unrealistic to assume that they don’t have enemies, but the potential threats that Honecker is alluding to don’t feel situationally appropriate.  
  
“No, no it isn’t. The uh, the external contact’s opinion is held in high regard.”  
  
“Who is it?” He asks. Honecker has no reason to tell him, and if the man were more experienced and less visibly put-off by Jango, he probably _wouldn’t_ tell him.  
  
“The Supreme Chancellor. He was quite insistent, actually. Apparently, he and Senator-Elect Organa have had brief dealings in the past and His Excellency was wrought with concern. Or at least, so I’ve heard.”  
  
“Huh.” Politics, then. Of course it’s politics. Jango doesn’t know what kind of answer he was expecting that _didn’t_ involve politics. If Valorum still filled that role, then Jango might feel more comfortable guessing ulterior motivations, but he’s completely unfamiliar with the new incumbent. Jango is relatively knowledgeable about Republic politics, at least as knowledgeable as he can be without boring himself to death. That being said, he isn’t nearly knowledgeable (or delusional) enough to think he can track any of the agendas lurking in the current assembly.  
  
“I apologize, I’m afraid I don’t have the clearance to offer any more details. You understand, of course.” Honecker says, eyes darting around the room to avoid Jango’s general proximity. It seems he’s realized, a moment too late, that perhaps that information wasn’t crucial to Jango’s understanding of the predicament. Outside, it looks like it’s finally starting to snow. Not too heavily, but it won’t take long for visibility to reduce, Jango knows.  
  
“Of course. If there’s any merit to the threat, I’ll take care of it. You can be sure of that.” He asserts, standing up. Honecker scrambles to follow suit, taken off-guard, but if there exists still conversation left to be had, Jango would be surprised. It’s abundantly clear that Honecker isn’t about to share any of the specifics here, and with pay locked in and materials acquired all that’s left is for Jango to get to work himself.  
  
“Right. Yes. I suppose that is all. You have my contact information?”  
  
“Yes.” Jango affirms, like the man hadn’t repeated it in the first ten minutes four times over.  
  
“Good, perfect. Thank you again–”  
  
“This is a transaction. Getting paid is enough thanks.” He’s very careful not to snap, but that doesn’t stop him from cutting the other off. Honecker’s eyebrows raise in surprise and he brushes off imaginary dust from his get-up, simultaneously smoothing the few wrinkles in the blue fabric, before his expression returns to something more neutral. It occurs briefly to Jango that he might need to brush up on his Coreward manners if this jobs like this are going to become a habit.  
  
“Ah, I see.” Honecker clears his throat. “Do you need someone to show you out?”  
  
“I’ll manage. You’ll hear from me if I find something beforehand.” He re-establishes, hoping that satisfies the requirements for a formal conclusion to the conversation well enough and taking his leave.  
  
It really isn’t difficult to navigate his way out of the building and into the open air. It’s downright bitter out, apparent from the way nameless strangers are bundled in layers on layers of heavy fabrics, blowing puffs of white fog into the air with each breath. The snow isn’t too heavy, but Jango’s pretty sure without his armor it would still be miserable. It’s the type of snow that turns to daggers when the wind hits hard enough, and there’s no doubt in his mind that that’s now. Jango lets his thoughts wander from the job at hand, just for the walk back to the _Legacy_ , instead choosing to focus fully on the task of getting back to the hangar. Just as he decides that, someone chooses to comm him.  
  
It’s Anakin, because of course it is. Jango’s been losing swathes of time since Roz’s death – everything blurs together when he doesn’t touch down anywhere with purpose outside of a gig – and he’s accidentally started marking weeks by the stories Anakin shares rather than whatever job he’s actually on. It’s a dangerous practice that eventually he’ll need break, but for now he’s just accepted it. Jango lets the call go a few iterations before rejecting it. It’s not like he wants to be ignoring Anakin, but the last thing he needs is a guilt trip from a nine-year-old about being on-planet and not saying anything. Thinking that way gives far too little credit to the kid, who is already well adjusted to simply not asking Jango any questions about his whereabouts. Jango doesn’t want to take any risks, though. Despite being on the same planet – and in the same city, for that matter – he really isn’t concerned about running into the Skywalkers otherwise. It’s a solid forty-five-minute walk between this particular location and where the Skywalkers call home. He checked.  
  
Jango veers off the main path and into a smaller alcove that’s more protective of the wind. It takes him through an upper-level co-op market, apparently, though most of the stands are closed due to the weather and only a few stragglers remain. He picks up his pace.  
  
“Jango?” At the sound of his name – first name, at that – he turns on his heel, fingers immediately brushing the grip of one of the Westars by his side. He quickly spots the target in question. Well, shit. “I thought that might have been you. Unless someone else donned the same armor,” She jokes. Jango is very intentional in his lack of response to that. There goes not running into anyone. He should’ve kept the thought out of his head.  
  
“Shmi.” He greets with a nod, masking any sort of shock that could be attached to her being this far out from home. More than that, there’s a good chance that a blizzard is about to pick up, and Shmi is from Tatooine. The only type of storm that the woman is familiar with are sandstorms – which, sure, can rip flesh from bone without second thought – but snowstorms can be just as fatal in the right circumstances, especially if someone is ill-equipped for them.  
  
“What are you doing here?” She asks, a gloved hand adjusting her scarf as the other grips tighter around the object she’s holding, pulling it closer to her chest. It’s some sort of succulent covered in a cheap heat regulating case that it would be dead without, no doubt. While Jango can’t see the purpose in it, he’s in no position to ask why she would bother with it.  
  
“I could ask you the same thing.” He responds belatedly, taking a step to the side so the thinning crowds can continue weaving around the two of them. Shmi lifts the little plant slightly like that explains everything, a breathless laugh, visible in the cold, escaping as she does so.  
  
“Obi-Wan likes small plants like this.” Right, of course. It doesn’t explain why Shmi would make her way out here, though.  
  
“Right.” He manages to respond, and just as he’s about to close conversation – never mind how Anakin has been holding up the past week, or how Shmi herself is adjusting, he has work to do, and sleep to catch up on – Shmi instigates further.  
  
“So, you’re here for a job?” She guesses, and Jango nods once. “I probably shouldn’t ask any more questions, in that case. How have you been?” She asks, like the two of them are old friends who just ran into each other at a semi-reputable cantina rather than the middle of a half-sheltered farmer’s market at the onset of a snowstorm.  
  
“Fine.” He answers brusquely, “You do realize that a storm is coming in, right?” He asks, tilting his head towards the end of the passageway.  
  
“Oh, Obi-Wan did warn me this morning that it was forecasted. I needed to get out, though. Sometimes I just have to follow those out those impulses.” She reasons easily. Jango takes a second to take a deep breath. So, both of them wound up in this particular alleyway by sheer luck. Of course.  
  
“Are you working tonight?” She asks suddenly, and whatever reason she may have for doing so is not something Jango wants to get tied up in.  
  
“Yeah.” He answers easily, thinking about all of the documents he has to sift through before tomorrow night.  
  
“Surely you can spare an hour or so and join us for dinner? It’s nothing fancy, but I know Ani would love to see you.” That’s what Jango was afraid of. He’s already too involved with Anakin, if someone were to catch wind of that it could spell trouble for him and his mother–  
  
Ah. So that’s the final piece of the equation that Jango’s been avoiding. The last lingering effect of Roz’s plea for him to find something to live for and her subsequent death. He’ll consider just what that says about him later, for now he has to figure out a way to get back on schedule.  
  
“Can’t. I have to uh, be somewhere.” Immediately as he says it, he knows that it’s unconvincing. He should’ve just told her that he has too much to look over.  
  
“Nonsense. Besides, I still owe you from before. Maybe I can pay you back slowly but surely in meals. But I should probably warn you, I’m used to cooking with very little and for the sake of functionalism only, so we should both hope that Obi-Wan made something. Though, between you and me, he isn’t much better.”  
  
“Shmi,” Suddenly, Jango can’t find his words like he wants to.  
  
“We should go before that storm does come in.” She steamrolls with a warm smile, leaving no room for debate. How this woman can be so accommodating while possessing the tenacity of an especially pissed gundark, all while wearing a smile, is beyond Jango. And maybe he isn’t entirely against seeing Anakin, even if there might be some danger in that. He’s curious to see how the kid is doing, to hear how Shmi is acclimating to life as a free woman, and maybe a part of him is aware enough to recognize just how lonely the past months have been without Roz and Outland to go back to in his down time. He sighs. He can’t believe he’s doing this.  
  
“Did you walk here?” He asks, resigning himself to this fate.   
  
“Oh, no. Well, part of the way. There’s a lot of the city I haven’t seen, and it’s strange to be in a place that I’m unfamiliar even after this long. And here I thought Mos Espa was big,” She shakes her head to herself, “No, no. I took public transport most of the way.”  
  
“That makes sense.” Jango contributes. The hike across the city turns into nothing when transportation is involved. Just because _he_ might hate being crammed in close quarters with strangers doesn’t mean others have an aversion to it. Considering his own experience with Mos Espa and just how many people were packed into the narrow streets, he wouldn’t be surprised if Shmi felt more at ease in crowds, if anything.  
  
Shmi takes it upon herself to begin walking, the wind immediately accosting them as soon as they step outside the safety of the vague sheltering. Despite his infrequent stops on Alderaan, even Jango knows that the lack of visibility can mean nothing good. Normally when it snows, the clouds are high enough to make the surrounding mountains still visible, concealing just the caps. That, and the wind is normally much calmer than what’s kicking up right now. Shmi walks with her head ducked to lessen some of the blow. Jango will have to figure out a better way back up here when he leaves the Skywalkers.  
  
“Thank you for helping Anakin, by the way.” She says, raising her voice slightly so that Jango can hear over the whistling being converted to white noise under his helmet. She needlessly ghosts a hand over his arm to guide him in the right direction, towards a small covered area. Alderaan is not nearly as labyrinthine and maddening as Coruscant, nor is it built up in the same way, clogging airspace. It makes sense that the public transit would be hosted on the ground, then. Shmi sighs with a shiver. “You should know that, while he appreciates your kindness, you should feel no obligation to give up your time.”  
  
“He’s a smart kid.” Jango says awkwardly in means of response, instead of anything else that he’s thinking. “So long as you don’t mind,” he adds. Shmi looks up at him, confused, before her expression settles once more.  
  
“Of course not. I trust you,” She says, craning her neck and leaning forward to check for their incoming ride. “He’s missed you, you know.” Shmi adds.  
  
“You should probably advise against that.  
  
“He looks up to you, Jango.” He would laugh at how ridiculous that is if the mere thought didn’t fill him with dread.  
  
“Oh, you should _definitely_ advise against that.”  
  
“Nonsense,” She fires back quickly, just as the tram pulls in.  
  
It occurs to him that wearing full Mandalorian armor in an enclosed space, especially in this sort of district, might attract more attention than he wants. Jango is thankful that Shmi recognizes the unwanted eyes on them both, opting not to have any potential eavesdroppers. The consequence of this is spending the whole trek in silence, instead passing the time by guessing how much worse the snow is getting based on how it speeds past the windows. He follows her lead wordlessly, leaving at the stop she leaves at and sticking by her side up towards the final destination.  
  
They manage to make it to the Skywalker’s apartment before the wind gets bad enough that they would have to take shelter beforehand. Shmi flicks on the light and shuffles off her coat, setting the small succulent on the nearby table.  
  
“How have things been?” Jango asks suddenly without any thought behind it, placing his helmet next to the plant and cataloging the layout of the room. The apartment opens to a small kitchen, open wall looking over to a sitting area with a rather impressive window whose view has been reduced to the rapidly falling snow illuminated by the nearby streetlights.  
  
“Good,” Shmi says, quietly maneuvering her way around the kitchen. Jango continues his absent-minded analysis of the space she’s been living in. A few potted plants are lined up on the windowsill. He needlessly takes note of the fact that the featherfern on the end will probably need a bigger pot soon. Jango hates that he’s almost impressed Kenobi has managed to get it to flourish like that, considering it’s indoors and in a north-facing window.  
  
“That’s good,” Jango offers, turning back to face her when it’s clear that she doesn’t intend to say more. There’s something weirdly comforting a misplaced nostalgia – misplaced because he’s never particularly experienced the domesticity of the current scenario – of conversing in the Skywalkers small kitchen, even if he is still armored.  
  
“You told me to be patient,” Jango nods.  
  
“I did.” He affirms.  
  
“It’s…difficult.” She manages to express with a sigh. He’s about to respond when she swerves the conversation suddenly, “Jango, no one is going to attack you in here. I think you can take off some of that armor if you want.”  
  
“You don’t know that for sure,” He jokes, but takes the request for what it is, thinking through whatever he’s willing to discard and what’s easy to. Gauntlets and gloves, he can sacrifice those.  
  
“Just set your things anywhere, we aren’t particular.”  
  
“Sure,” He acknowledges, though his discomfort keeps him from saying anything else about that. “Anakin’s not home yet?” He asks when the realization sinks in.  
  
“Obi-Wan told me they might be back later, shouldn’t be much longer, though.” Shmi brushes off, despite her earlier off-handed comment on Kenobi’s cooking abilities.  
  
The discomfort of standing around idly while Shmi digs through the kitchen suddenly becomes unbearable, and he makes the decision to start looking through what ingredients she’s pulled out, himself. An assortment of vegetables – some mushrooms, general tubers, a few others – and a base stock. So, soup, then. He runs the water in the sink cold and starts sorting the ingredients.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” Her tone is sharp – well, as sharp as Shmi Skywalker _can_ sound.  
  
“I’m helping make dinner, since you insisted that I come in the first place.” He argues. “It’ll go faster if you let me.”  
  
“Fine.” She concedes all too easily, and Jango starts the process of washing some of the vegetables as the overhead light flickers above them.  
  
They fall into an easy quiet, Shmi still searching for spices kept hidden in the various cabinets. The light gives out again.  
  
“Well that’s annoying.” Jango observes.  
  
“We’ve put in a work order about four different times.” Must be faulty wiring, that’s expensive to fix it’s the whole building. “I’m close to trying to fix it myself.”  
  
“You probably could,” Jango awards. Shmi has been a mechanic most her life, if she can’t figure out how to fix some bad wiring, then he strongly doubts that anyone else could.  
  
“I fix ships, not electricity.” She argues, like the former is a basic skill.  
  
“Eh, similar enough. Where do you keep your knives?” He asks, wiping his hands on a thin dish towel patterned with minimalist Shaaks.  
  
“Oh, top right drawer next to the sink.” Shmi responds from underneath the counter, fishing out a large pot. Sure enough, the cutting knives are in the specified drawer. Jango takes a second to glance at the spices she pulled and fights the urge to grimace. He’ll work with that, if he has to.  
  
“How is work?” She asks when she emerges again, placing the busted and stained pot on the stovetop.  
  
“Fine enough. Yours?”  
  
“Same as always, I suppose. Pass some of those over to me, will you?” She requests, grabbing a thinner cutting board herself. “I didn’t think it would be this hard.”  
  
“Making soup?” Jango asks when she doesn’t elaborate, trying to offer an easy way out if she should choose. She stops moving. Jango does the same.  
  
“You know, when Obi-Wan got back earlier this week, he was a lot more balanced. It’s good to see that he’s adjusted to being away from his home, even though I’ve told him he has no obligation to stay. He isn’t working himself to death anymore, I think he may have gotten a raise? He’s making more, I know that,” She shares, and Jango has to keep his expression from shifting. Acquiring more money suddenly is never a good sign, he’ll have to pick at that later. “It’s comforting to know that he’s settled, more or less.” Shmi  
  
“But?” Jango asks after a second.  
  
“I’ve lived my whole life ready for something terrible to happen, and even here I can’t shake it. You said to be patient with myself.” She repeats. “Sometimes it’s difficult to know if I’ll ever be able to acclimate like that. Ah, sorry,” She concludes, brushing off her concerns with nervous laughter. “All of this to say, I’m contemplating a career change.”  
  
“It’s worth a try,” He offers, unsure of what else to say. It doesn’t seem like she wants to address what the rest of what she’s shared. “If you think it’ll help.”  
  
“Here I am inviting you into my home and you wind up helping cook and listening to my woes,” Shmi laughs at herself as she says it, and for a split second it tricks Jango into thinking that this is normal, that standing in this kitchen and talking about this family is a typical occurrence in his schedule. It’s the same sort of feeling that only four days aboard the _Legacy_ with these people generated.  
  
He can’t formulate a response before the door opens, revealing a disgruntled Kenobi who ushers Anakin inside shortly thereafter. Jango stares at the kid, openly alarmed by his appearance.  
  
“Anakin!” Shmi exclaims, immediately rushing to her son. Anakin smiles up at Jango from the doorway. His face is swollen, adorned with a particularly nasty black eye and cuts across the side of his face that make it look like he was dragged across pavement. “Oh, no, what happened?” She tilts his face every which way, clearly trying to take stock of the damage done.  
  
“Anakin got in a fight today.” Kenobi explains flatly, his expression tired but just stern enough to explain why Anakin looks vaguely reminiscent of a kicked Tooka. His nose scrunches and he swats away his mother’s hands, but he makes eye contact with Jango and smiles. “ _Again._ ” He adds, but Anakin is already onto the next topic at hand.  
  
“Jango! I knew I sensed you here! I told you so,” He says, turning to Kenobi, who finally looks up at Jango, himself. Some emotion flickers across his face visibly – maybe concern, possibly contempt. Either way, his stare hardens, critical. It’s quickly replaced with a practiced smile and a nod. “Are you okay? I tried calling you earlier. And before that.” Anakin’s rambling continues.  
  
“Anakin, I thought we discussed calling people at school,” Kenobi chastises, but there’s no real bite to it, like he’s had this conversation one too many times to really put his whole heart into it.  
  
“And I haven’t! Technically. I mean it’s not like I was in class. I was just physically _at_ school. It was after they called you to come in, so I was just in the hall.” Anakin defends quickly.  
  
“What was it, this time?” Shmi asks, pulling the kid’s attention back to her literally with a firm grip on his shoulders, forcibly turning him to face her. Anakin groans dramatically.  
  
“It wasn’t as bad as they made it sound, promise!” He says in Kenobi’s direction. Jango very carefully turns his attention back to the task he’s accidentally been given. This conversation has no place for him, and he’s not about to feel awkward for witnessing it – he would have heard it all from Anakin, himself, eventually – but he does know when his input or presence is distinctly out of place. Rusty Core manners or not, he knows better than to put his nose in a household affair.  
  
“It sounded pretty bad,” Kenobi says with a sigh.  
  
“I was just defending myself.” Anakin insists, stare locked on Kenobi. Shmi seems to be the only one who remembers that Jango is in the room, glancing his direction and mouthing an apology.  
  
“Could you not have defended yourself by _talking_ about it?” Kenobi asks. Shmi’s expression wavers. Jango just continues watching from the peripheral, pretending he’s completely preoccupied. He wonders if this is a common occurrence between the two Force users in the room. Getting so caught up in arguing with one another that they completely forget anyone else is even present, that is. Given Shmi’s reaction, he can safely assume the answer is yes.  
  
“I did,” Anakin insists, voice raising like that will further prove his innocence, “I told them to kriff off!” Jango laughs at the sheer comedy of that, not quick enough to pull it off as anything else.  
  
“It’s not funny!” Shmi scolds, but Jango quickly turns back to the peppers he was cutting with a shrug. “That’s not what we meant, and you know it, Anakin.”  
  
“It’s a little bit funny.” Jango corrects, offering Anakin a smirk from over the counter. It seems to brighten the kid’s spirits, despite his busted-up face and the way his weight is shifted onto one leg.  
  
“Not that it matters, but I didn’t start it,” Anakin whines, finally starting the process of removing all of his layers. “They were saying mean stuff about one of the other kids in class who doesn’t know Basic all that great either, and I told them to knock it off but then that made me a target and it would’ve been fine but then they took my stuff and threatened to ruin my hard-copy flimsi book – the one that you got me, Obi-Wan! – and so I got mad.”  
  
“And you didn’t tell anyone that?” Shmi asks, reinserting herself into the conversation and pulling both of the others back into the present moment.  
  
“I didn’t want them to get hurt.” Anakin deadpans. Jango snaps his head up at that sentiment. Of course Anakin would be wary putting anyone in hot water with authority, the kid is used to people getting severely injured or worse when snitched on for anything. All former experience he has would point to that causing more harm than good. Shmi looks visibly at a loss for words.  
  
“Well it certainly looks like you were ganged up on.” Jango observes aloud, filling the tentative beginnings of silence. He won’t ask if Anakin could get a few hits in before they were pulled apart or mention that the assholes deserved what was coming and then some. It’s not his place.  
  
“It doesn’t matter, not really. How are you? Have you been anywhere cool the past month?” Anakin asks hopefully, clearly eager to change the topic at hand.  
  
“I think you should clean some of those cuts out before we catch up, Anakin.” Jango suggests, instead. Really, it might be best for Kenobi and Anakin to both get a second to cool off. Shmi finally stands from her crouched position, but Kenobi continues to lurk just inside the doorway.  
  
“Jango’s right. Here,” Shmi says, taking his coat in her arms, “We can have a full discussion about this _later_ ,” She presses, this time directed at Kenobi. And there’s the awkwardness Jango was somehow avoiding until this very moment. He should be back on the _Legacy_ tearing through notes. Instead he’s witnessing a personal family matter and helping make a quick dinner. Shmi guides Anakin by the shoulder further into the apartment and towards where Jango can only guess is the nearest ‘fresher. “I’m not sure if we have much bacta left, but we still need to clean all of this out. We’ll have to go out and get some more later,” She tells her son, before leaving Jango and a former Jedi alone in the same room.  
  
Kenobi glances at him, stare hardening when he sees Jango staring back. The uncomfortable silence doesn’t last long, though.  
  
“Fett.” Obi-Wan greets, his expression quickly relaxing again.  
  
“Kenobi.” Jango returns with a nod while returning to the vegetables at hand.  
  
“What brings you to Alderaan?”  
  
“Work.” He answers easily enough, watching Kenobi set his bag down at the table along with his coat.  
  
“Yes, that would make sense.” Kenobi answers, voice maintaining what is no-doubt a carefully curated easiness in quality. It sounds almost good-natured. Jango looks up properly to make eye contact with him, but he’s fully engrossed in digging through the contents of his own belongings. The rapid transition from unease to casual is disarming. If Jango hadn’t seen the brief flash of concern beforehand, he isn’t sure if he would be able to spot the other’s discomfort at all.  
  
Kenobi must come across what he’s looking for – a stack of flimsi and a commlink of decent make that he sets on the table – and turns to face Jango with a smile that mirrors one of Shmi’s.  
  
“I understand that it’s difficult to say no to Shmi. I’m sure that you have previous obligations. By all means, if you need to leave,” He trails off. His entire demeanor is so vastly different than any time Jango has spoken to him prior, composed in a way that makes it seem impossible for the words to suggest anything else, that it takes a second for Jango to grasp the subtext. Whatever that initial response to Jango’s presence was resurfaces in the underlying request for him to leave. Regardless of research that needs to be done and the prospect of a worsening storm outside, Jango digs his heels in.  
  
“I’m already here.”  
  
“A keen observation,” Kenobi snarks immediately, making his way towards the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “I can do that, if you prefer.” He offers, nodding in the direction of Jango’s knifework.  
  
“I’m perfectly capable of making soup.”  
  
“I’d never suggest otherwise. You _did_ point out that you’re already here, though, and that makes you our guest. What sort of host would I be if–” An incoming signal notice from the commlink on the table keeps him from finishing the thought, but he doesn’t move to answer it. Instead, he just takes a deep breath through his nose, drying his hands off on his pants. Jango looks at him expectantly.  
  
“Are you gonna get that?”  
  
“I probably should. One moment,” Kenobi says, an inkling of reluctance creeping into the words as he finally moves to grab the commlink in question. He sighs looking at the ID. “I’ll–I’ll be right back.” He says with one last lingering look before disappearing into one of the rooms in the hallway.  
  
Finishing the soup is easy enough when he isn’t distracted by people arguing or talking at the same time, leaving Jango to stand around idly as the Skywalkers finish their business and Kenobi his. He shakes his head at himself. Maybe he should have taken Kenobi up on that offer to leave. His own stubbornness is going to get him killed. From where he stands, he can hear parts of Kenobi’s conversation. Jango idly walks towards the window, observing the way shadows move in the windows across the way. He can hear Kenobi pacing in the room next door, muffled words clarifying the closer to the walls he is.  
  
Jango turns his attention to the plants on the sill, spotting (shamefully late) a hard-copy book that rests between two of the ferns. He picks it up and flips through some of the pages lazily. It’s written in what he recognizes as Archaic, of all languages, but unfortunately his knowledge starts and stops there. He can only assume that it belongs to Kenobi, unless Shmi has taken up reading Archaic for fun. There are diagrams of some sort of game, illustrations of figures he doesn’t recognize, and as he turns the pages, one of them falls away from the spine. He just barely manages to catch it, placing it back in the book. He tilts his head, curious. It isn’t a page that belongs there at all. If having an actual hard copy of a book is odd, then having handwritten notes on a random scrap of flimsi might be unexpected. The flimsi being tucked away like a well-kept secret is downright suspicious.  
  
He squints at the – admittedly – nice handwriting. It’s something written in shorthand, dates scratched out next to it. He flips through some more pages, only to find similar notes left behind. Lines connect certain words, planet names and similar lettering, numbers that have no meaning to Jango at all. Something itches in the back of his mind, urging him to commit the letters to memory. Old habits die hard, or something like that. He mouths along the sequence of the numbers and some of the locations. Bandomeer, Melida/Daan, Kegan – he’s only familiar with the first. Kenobi’s doing more than keeping secrets, he’s _cataloguing_ them. Kenobi’s footsteps stall at the place nearest the wall next to Jango.  
  
“I am available at your pleasure, my lord.” Jango looks up from the book to stare at the wall, like that will explain what he just heard. He doesn’t like the sound of that at all. He casually turns his attention to the book in his hands, more than willing to forget about the overheard address.  
  
There’s a slight lag between Kenobi ending the call and him returning to the common space. Though the ex-Jedi, apparently, takes miraculously soft steps, Jango still notices his presence immediately.  
  
“Do you refer to all of your old friends by their honorifics?” Jango asks without looking up.  
  
“Only when it’s relevant.” He answers cryptically. Jango draws his hand back and away from the hand-written note tucked away in the book just as it slams shut and snaps into Kenobi’s hand. Right. The Force. Jango almost forgot.  
  
“Hm. That’s not exactly light reading.” He nods towards the book now in Kenobi’s possession. He doesn’t look up as he scans through the pages, making sure everything is in order, no doubt. Jango has no need to break whatever code the notes have been organized into, it’s none of his business. That doesn’t mean he isn’t curious, though.  
  
“You play?” Kenobi asks in disbelief, and Jango can’t discern whether he looks concerned or excited about the question.  
  
“What? No, I can’t read Archaic.” He explains. He doesn’t need to read Archaic to know that the pages and pages of text are dry beyond all measure. It takes all of his self-control to not ask about Kenobi’s personal notes. “You seemed set on not talking to any old friends last I heard.”  
  
“It’s complicated.” Kenobi looks away, now, placing the book in his bag, still seated at the table. Jango doesn’t know why the answer bothers him so much. Maybe it’s because Shmi trusts Kenobi so much, or because Anakin looks up to him. Maybe it’s because Jango, regrettably and against all better judgement, feels somewhat responsible for whatever happens to the Skywalkers in the former Jedi’s presence.  
  
“I’m starting to think that’s your default answer to most things.”  
  
“To be fair, most things happen to be complicated.”  
  
“Not all of them, though.” Kenobi stares at him silently. “Is it the same friend you saw last week?” Jango guesses, and as soon as he does possible timelines start creeping into view. Based on what both of the Skywalkers have told him about Obi-Wan’s whereabouts and state of mind, the potential  
  
“I hardly see how–”  
  
“Leaving Shmi and Anakin in the dark is suspicious, you understand that, right?” Jango interrupts whatever roundabout response Kenobi is spinning. “They deserve better.” He adds. That seems to crack Kenobi’s finely curated façade.  
  
“If this is intended to be an interrogation then fine, it was the person that I saw. Does that satisfy you?” Oh, kriff this. Jango doesn’t like the way these pieces are falling into place at all. The secrecy, the alleged nerves before departure – Anakin had relayed that Kenobi said he couldn’t reject the offer off-planet – and Shmi saying that Obi-Wan more at peace since then. Not to mention the money connected to the fewer working hours and Shmi’s assumption of a raise.  
  
“Please tell me you’re embezzling.” Jango blurts out.  
  
“What?” Kenobi sounds genuinely shocked by the notion.  
  
“The money. Are you embezzling?”  
  
“The money? What mon—ah, that money. No, I would never! If it’s a matter of legality I can assure you–”  
  
“Look, if you’re in a tight spot–” Jango lowers his voice, remembering just how thin the walls are in the unit. The last thing that either of them need is Anakin asking after any of this. “If you’re in a tight spot and someone is taking advantage of that,” Jango trails off, trying to euphemize his thought process, but Kenobi seems to take it at surface value.  
  
“I have everything under control.”  
  
“Right, okay. So, you trading goods or uh,” Jango coughs despite himself, meandering back towards the soup on the stovetop, “Or services for those extra creds?” This is not a conversation he wants to – nor is he equipped – to be having.  
  
“I… I suppose so?” Obi-Wan responds. Jango nods along with the response, more question than answer proper. He idly stirs the soup to keep it from coagulating at the bottom. “I suppose time is a good, right?  
  
“And you aren’t being coerced or blackmailed or anything?”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Okay. Okay, that’s all I wanted to know.” It’s not, but there’s no way Jango’s about to repeat the closing line of whatever the hell that call was. If Kenobi is fine with whatever agreement he and his so-called old friend have come to, then far be Jango from saying anything.  
  
“Oh. Oh, no. Wait. No. No, Fett, no – _chess_ , Jango, I’ve been playing a chess variant with the nearest thing to a familial relation I have left. He happens to be in a position comfortable enough to help us.” Jango drops the spoon to run his hands over his face, exasperated.  
  
“Kriffing hells, could you not have just said that?”  
  
“I didn’t realize you were asking if I was sleeping with him!”  
  
“I’m sorry, next time if I think that, I’ll just ask you, I’m sure that’ll go over great for the both of us,” Jango snaps dryly, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Chess, are you kidding me? _Ori’haat_.” The Mando’a escapes him before he can think better of it, but Obi-Wan breezes right past it despite his initial questioning in Dex’s.  
  
“What’s happening?” A third voice comes from down the hall before Kenobi can break into another tangent.  
  
“Nothing.” Both of them respond in unison. Jango looks to Kenobi, who has already decided to look to him. Jango shakes his head.  
  
“Is Anakin alright?” Kenobi asks.  
  
“I had wood chips stuck up my nose!” The kid shouts from behind Shmi, sounding way too excited about apparently getting knocked around so thoroughly that wood chips got shoved up to his brains. When he’s finally in Jango’s line of sight, Anakin stands on his tiptoes to rest his chin on the elevated counter separating the small kitchen from the living room. His hair has been wet down and slicked back so that Shmi could obviously better see to what injuries there were.  
  
“That sounds uncomfortable.” Jango offers, figuring it’s safe enough for all parties now in the room. Anakin is now sporting a chunk of gauze stuck on his forehead and a cheap butterfly bandage over one of the bigger cuts on his face – the one right beneath his black eye. Jango’s beginning to suspect that, too, was wood chip induced.  
  
“It hurt to blow my nose! It was all bloody and gross, totally wizard! Can you huff bacta? Do you think that would work?” Jango quickly stifles a laugh. The kid is certainly in better spirits than when he first came in,  
  
“If it does, I haven’t heard of it.” Kenobi says, having already moved behind Jango and beginning to pull bowls out of the shelves. “Besides, that wouldn’t get the wood chips out of your nose.”  
  
“Ani, can you help clear off the table?” Shmi asks, already taking Kenobi’s coat to hang in the small closet by the doorway.  
  
“Yeah!” He bounces once as he responds, looking too excited to be helping out.  
  
With the snow outside obscuring most of the view and the way Jango’s been losing track of time lately, sitting down at a table with tag-teamed soup across from people he hasn’t seen – or even knows, at least not really – is the strangest type of fever dream he could ever think up. The apartment, with its flickering light and all, feels like a pocket universe. It’s a bizarre sort of simple that, circumstances aside, is vaguely comforting. Shmi and Kenobi indulge in some casual conversation, but Anakin is quick to ignore all formality and actually eat.  
  
“Jango cooks better than either of you,” He states proudly after taking a bite, “It’s good!” Praise from a nine-year-old probably shouldn’t bear as much weight as it does, but Anakin’s not about to lie about soup, of all things, so he can rest assured that he didn’t actually botch it. Jango smiles, but he can’t take anything seriously when Anakin looks like that. It’s a respectable black eye, that’s for sure.  
  
“It’s impressive,” He says despite himself. Anakin tilts his head expectantly and Jango taps under his own left eye to signal the direction of the comment, earning him a gap-toothed smile. “Did you win?”  
  
“Jango.”  
  
“Really?” Both Shmi and Kenobi admonish.  
  
“Well?” Jango presses, choosing to ignore the other two.  
  
“Uh, define. _win_?” The kid asks, scratching the side of his head, smile widening.  
  
“Are they gonna regret taking your stuff?” Anakin seems to think about it for a moment, tilting his head comically in thought.  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“If they try it again, just keep in mind the weak points most sentients have. You can never go wrong with a cheap shot over the ears, if they’ve got ‘em. It’ll mess with–”  
  
“Jango!” Shmi cuts him off before he can continue any further, smacking his arm from across the small table.  
  
“Don’t listen to him,” Kenobi says with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing Shmi’s glass without asking and heading towards the sink to refill it.  
  
“It’ll mess with their equilibrium, throw them off balance.” He finishes, lowering his voice like it will stop the other adults in the room from hearing.  
  
“It could also burst their eardrums, which is very painful and has plenty of other repercussions,” Kenobi adds flatly, sitting back down. Shmi thanks him quietly as he hands her the now-full glass.  
  
“Ah, yeah. That too.” He confirms, and Anakin laughs, the tension completely going above his head.  
Conversation carries on, and o party involved seems particularly thrown off by Jango’s otherwise silent presence, nor the fact that he still remains armed. Shmi occasionally ropes Jango into the general discussion, but Anakin is brave enough to ask a few more prying questions. None of them are too bold for Jango to feel justified in refusing answers, thus far.  
  
“Are you here on a bounty?” He asks suddenly.  
  
“Not technically,” Jango answers honestly, against better judgement.  
  
“But a job, right?” Jango hums affirmation. “Cool.” Anakin asserts, nodding. The pocket universe collapses inwards on itself as he remembers that he should probably actually be working. The snow outside makes that less than ideal, but it’s not the worst weather he’s had to navigate, and a walk would probably be good to clear his head, shake off whatever this was.  
  
“Which is probably why I should head out here, soon.”  
  
“Already?”  
  
“It’s already been a good while, Anakin,” He stands from the table as he says as much, walking back towards the sink to rinse out his bowl.  
  
“Will you be alright getting back to where you’re staying? The storm looks brutal,” Shmi asks, the questions seeped in genuine concern. A quick glance outside the window ensures that the storm in question is mainly wind, right now.  
  
“I’ll be fine.” He assures her, walking back to his misplaced armor and starting to reequip it. He doesn’t bother reconnecting wiring, instead choosing to test his luck and assume that he won’t need a flamethrower. “It was good to catch up.” He adds, shockingly finding that it’s the full truth. Shmi stands to see him off, but Jango instead looks to Kenobi. _Bandomeer, Melida/Daan, Kegan._ He recites back to himself. There’s very little about that man that he trusts. He pauses, contemplating his words carefully and adjusting his grip on the helmet in his hands.  
  
“Thank you for your hospitality.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jango: Now I will simply walk through a snowstorm because I Can. 
> 
> It's been a hot minute since I've linked my tumblr, you can find me [ here! ](https://rejectedbard.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you wanna chat about anything at all, feel free to shoot me a message! (please. I'm quarantining for obvious reasons and very, very, very, bored.)
> 
> Have a good week, friends!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **HEADS UP/CW:** I basically tried to write a full-on panic attack, vague sensory overload, general dissociation, and everything that ties into Sith shenanigans.  
> If you don't feel up to reading my depiction of those things, feel free to skip it. The most important parts will be revisited in the next chapter💖

Immediately upon entering the main hallway, Obi-Wan is accosted with the overwhelming scent of seasonal spices. He takes one last deep breath – one final moment to himself before he equips a natural smile and disarms whatever quips map lay dormant on his tongue – and nearly chokes on the specific notes of clove and cinnamon and bergamot. He silently curses Shmi while adjusting the too-stiff fabric that hangs, ungiving and just close enough to graze his skin, at his wrists. She had insisted that he drop the credits on something vaguely acceptable to wear, the outcome of which had been this. It’s nothing too ostentatious, certainly nowhere near as obtrusive as some of the get-ups Obi-Wan has seen politicians trap themselves in, but anything more than a few steps up from typical Jedi robes still induces a peculiar degree of discomfort. Unfortunately, he’s relatively certain that said discomfort is lesser than the hypothetical discomfort of being underdressed.

He’s also well aware that he’s being dramatic, more inclined to wallow over something silly like clothing rather than contemplate how out of place he is regardless of what it is that he’s wearing. Negativity of that caliber would only make the whole experience that much more insufferable. All he has to do is make a strategic appearance to the few people he knows in attendance and express his gratitude. That’s two whole people: his own boss and Bail Organa himself, though Obi-Wan isn’t certain whether or not his sparse conversation with the man constitutes any recognition. Organa, after all, is the man of the hour. Regardless, it’s his explicit intent to leave as quickly as possible. He doesn’t want trouble, and despite Shmi’s musings, he knows that there is no reason for him to be here that doesn’t lead to trouble, regardless of the intent behind his mysterious invitation (though intent is certainly still in question, prodding at every layer of his thought). Realizing that he, unfortunately, can’t prolong this any further, he resigns himself to what will no doubt be an excruciatingly awkward experience. 

The room itself is an overly large ballroom within the Aldera Royal Palace. It has impressive high ceilings adorned with golden lights evenly spaced and the back wall is composed entirely of windows. Even with all of the people inside – the sheer amount of said people does make Obi-Wan feel slightly better about being here, maybe they really were just inviting anyone and everyone – it’s still possible to see the specks of light from the city flickering and the vague outlines of the towering mountains. It’s too dark out to see much else, but it’s still a comfort. 

Obi-Wan turns his attention to the inhabitants of the room, seeing if he can manage to find his employer on sight, alone. It’s unlikely, considering the demographics of invitees. It’s a majority human, and while Novotny might be exceptional on a courtroom floor, he is anything but in appearance. Finding the mid-height, mid-stature man whose very posture mimics that of every other person around is a near impossible task. Obi-Wan finds himself turning to the Force, attempting to single out the presence that he recognizes while trying to blend into the background to avoid wandering eyes as best as possible. With so many bodies, everything feels muddled and hazy, a blur of motion and side conversations and clove-cinnamon-bergamot. 

The longer he sticks to the walls, catching earfuls of conversation, he finds himself longing to be home. The exchanges are vapid and loaded with subtle bragging, all copy and pasted across different clusters of discussion. He’s grown accustomed to the Skywalkers favored form of communication – direct, honest, and refreshingly sincere – and this is anything but that. What he wouldn’t give to be home sharing tea with Shmi and trading stories or sitting with Anakin and hearing about wherever it is his train of thought has taken him or, better yet, actually continuing with the boy’s training. He’s made substantial progress even in such a short time and its equal parts miraculous and terrifying to witness firsthand. With another conversation passed, brimming with honeyed half-truths and empty boasting, he finds himself even longing for just the near-quiet of his small room and a spare hour to read. At this point, he might even prefer talking to Count Dooku, himself. At least Obi-Wan knows the rules of those exchanges, when to curb his sarcasm and when to omit details. The deceit doesn’t masquerade as anything else, and while efforts of subversion are well woven into conversation, at least they both accept the game for what it is. It should be noted, bitterly, that while they both have a mutual understanding of the rules of their conversation, Obi-Wan has lost the game every time.

That’s another thought that he can’t linger on without sending him careening towards hours of deep thought and something likely akin to conspiracy theorizing. He tracks details near obsessively, committing nuances in conversation to memory like they mean more than they inevitably do. If he wants to get farther across the board, he has to be willing to sacrifice pieces. If he wants to get further details about what it is that Dooku is up to, what it is that he’s hiding, then he has to be willing to sacrifice information of his own. Hence his newfound ownership of the book that he would like to return to. It didn’t take much searching to find the thing, not with the connections he’s managed to acquire in various archives from past research for work, but the hard copy was a pleasant surprise. Winning the games of Shah Tezh is considerably less important to him than having a place to tuck his notes on conversation away, inelegant codes written on scratch pieces of flimsi he’s managed to scrounge up. Obi-Wan finds that it’s easier to keep track of his own falsehoods and purposeful timeline blunders and Dooku’s on paper to later piecemeal something that might resemble the truth. Of course, at some point he would like to actually win a game or two. There’s only so much dignified gloating he can take, and – ah, yes, this is the careening he was concerned about. He refocuses on the situation at hand, tucking away the snag on his thoughts for when he has time to meditate on it. 

There are faces that he recognizes from the news cycles scattered about, the small offering of vague familiarity a comfort amidst the crowd. It does little to help him find anyone he’s actually looking for, though. Based on the way everyone morphs into one muddled conglomerate of life in the Force, it’s very possible that the person in question isn’t even here yet. There’s no danger in Novotny not showing up; unlike Obi-Wan, he was thrilled to be invited and also, notably, had _reason_ to be invited. The man has a reputation, after all. 

Obi-Wan’s search is momentarily halted, distracted by a figure in his direct line of sight. In the very corner of the expansive room, lurks an all-too-familiar Mandalorian. Fett is still fully armed, and like it’s the most natural occurrence in the world. For what it’s worth, no one seems to spare him a second glance. Whether that’s out of fear or because they know why he’s here, Obi-Wan will never know, though he supposes it’s probably a healthy combination of both. It would be so easy to ignore his presence, but if Fett is here for whatever job he’s on, that means trouble – or something concerningly adjacent – is, as well.

“Why are you here?” Obi-Wan asks, probably more hushed than necessary. 

“Are you sure you’re the one who should be asking that question?” He questions in response, sounding adequately disinterested and simultaneously contemptuous to reaffirm that it is, in fact, Jango Fett. 

“Oh, decidedly not.” Obi-Wan admits. If Fett is insistent on maintaining animosity, then the least he can do is subvert that so thoroughly in hopes of annoying him. 

“Watch yourself, Kenobi.” He returns after a moment, head turning back to face the crowd, “Something’s up.”

“Thank you. I didn’t realize the peculiarity of the situation until this very moment. I appreciate your considerate warning,” Obi-Wan says despite himself, regardless of whatever previous forethought he had to rein in the sarcasm. The only response he receives before Fett turns to scout the rest of the room is a sigh loud enough to be parsed by the vocoder.

“Wait,” He requests, curiosity and outright concern getting the best of him. To his surprise, Fett does in fact turn back to face him. Obi-Wan heaves a deep breath and swallows his pride. “If you’re on a job, I’m assuming you’ve done research. Do you,” He pauses, unsure of how to ask the burning question in a graceful way, “Do you know why I was invited?” 

“You tell me.” There’s an accusation lurking at the surface of the three words, one Obi-Wan doesn’t like the sound of at all. He’s still painfully aware of what the bounty hunter is capable of. Jango Fett is not someone he wants to make an enemy of. 

“I genuinely have no idea. I have one connection here – and frankly, even his presence is a bit of a stretch, but at least there’s _an_ explanation – and even then, my station alone makes it outrageous for me to be here,” Unless people are still associating him with his time in the Order. That could make things even more complicated, if anyone actually singles him out for discussion. Fett’s body language shifts minutely, and the two stand in contemplative silence for a brief moment.

“Looks like you might have some enemies in high places.” Jango observes. It is not a comforting thought in the slightest. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Obi-Wan has stayed under the radar as best as he can, not that he has the capability of doing anything that would circulate his name, which means that this must be tied to his time as a Padawan. 

“Lay low. It’ll certainly make my job easier.” Fett opts to hedge instead of offering any sort of legitimate response. Obi-Wan is about to quip back but takes a moment to think through it all. Fett clearly knows something that he doesn’t. If there’s one thing Obi-Wan can be certain of, it’s the bounty hunter’s commitment to his reputation and his career. If Fett deems it best not to share such information with him, then it might very well be in the best interest of himself and everyone in the room. Considering he hasn’t been shot at yet, it might be better to roll with the punches. He contemplates his next words carefully.

“Should I ask?” Is the question that he settles on.

“Lay low.” Fett repeats.

“I’m trying to leave as quickly as possible.” 

“Do that.” He outright commands, unilaterally deciding that the cryptic conversation is over and leaving Obi-Wan standing there dumbly while he stalks away. He feels a familiar buzz at the base of his skull, the physical manifestation of being watched returning once more. Unfortunately, he’s not sure if it’s residual paranoia anymore. _Enemies in high places_. He attempts to swallow down his concern, ignoring his now dry mouth.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Someone calls to him not a minute after. Obi-Wan adjusts his sleeves again as he turns in the direction of the voice. He is not expecting, in any capacity, to turn right into conversation with the High Chancellor of the Republic. All thoughts mute themselves in a quick flicker of misplaced panic. Maybe he is more out of practice at diplomatic conversation than he thought. With of the foreign signatures in the room and his own tightly maintained shields, he was not expecting to come face to face with Sheev Palpatine. 

“Your Excellency,” It’s mostly habit that he bows, luckily still an acceptable greeting, “What a surprise to see you.” Obi-Wan continues, though more on autopilot than anything. He’s quickly organizing all of the thoughts threatening to break his very carefully maintained mental fortitude. Seeing one person, whom he hardly had any dealings within his prior life, will not undo all of his hard work. He’s nearly certain, however, that conversation with the man does not qualify as laying low.

“I could very well say the same to you! Not a day passes that I don’t fret over what has become of you, but you seem to have done quite well for yourself, haven’t you? Quite well, indeed, friend!” Palpatine laughs, all warm politician and with a shocking amount of sincerity. Obi-Wan finds his own smile widening. 

“I am very fortunate to have been met with such kindness as I have been,”

“Yes, yes. Though I suspect it has much more to do with your skill. I’ve heard some of your work has made quite a stir,” Obi-Wan schools his reaction to the obvious politics, once again wishing that he could fade back into the shadows and go home.

“You’re quite generous with your praise. I fear people are forgetting that there is not much I actually do,” He replies easily, carefully keeping his tone carefree and light. Mentioning the mystery of his presence, even in such vague terms, might not be in good taste, but Obi-Wan finds he isn’t particularly concerned about the potential faux pas. It’s better than pretending that he does belong.

“There is no need to be humble, my boy,” He isn’t sure if he would classify the response as a display of humility. At this point Obi-Wan is simply concerned. “It is an honor to have a Jedi in our midst.” Palpatine concludes with a marginal shift in expression Obi-Wan can’t quite discern. While having a Jedi at an event like this might make sense – some reflection of good faith within the Republic and diplomatic support, or something of that nature – the flaw with that theory is that Obi-Wan isn’t one. It reaffirms his theory that the novelty of his Temple upbringing is at fault for this whole night. Somehow, that confirmation is even worse for his morale than Fett’s advice.

“With all due respect, I am not a Jedi.” The words spoken aloud don’t make his chest ache like they used to. 

“Ah, I had heard rumors but didn’t dare make any assumptions. I still owe you thanks for your actions as one, though. It is,” Palpatine’s gaze flits off towards the middle of the room as he nods to himself, visibly considering his next words with a great amount of care, “A great service that you have done my people, I only wish I were better able to extend my gratitude. Although, I am sure you had your reasons to depart from the Order.” He awards. Obi-Wan has spent enough time around politicians and self-proclaimed smooth-talkers to easily identify an implied question when he hears one. Unfortunately for the Chancellor, that isn’t a topic that he wants to discuss in any capacity. 

“It was an honor to aid the Naboo, though once again it seems you give me far too much credit, Your Excellency.” Obi-Wan continues to shirk, uncomfortably aware of the misplaced respect and thanks. Palpatine had called him humble, but it is not humility by any stretch of the imagination. His role in the Crisis itself is limited to a few liberated Nubian pilots and an unfortunate duel. 

“You belittle your service to the Republic!” The stress on the word, paired with Palpatine’s sincere expression, make Obi-Wan swallow thickly. This is a conversation they are having, then. “It is a shame that you had to depart before we could meet properly! It’s been what, a full year?”

“Almost nine months, yes,” Obi-Wan corrects under the careful guise of agreement. “Though I’m certain time moves faster in your field than mine,” He adds with a laugh that sounds fake to his own ears.

“Both of us are in the thick of it, it would seem! From what I’ve heard, you handle more paperwork than others in your position would. Your diligence is commendable, Obi-Wan.” Obi-Wan isn’t a fool. The excessive flattery and contextual first-name referral mean that the Chancellor wants something. He could not have foreseen ever missing Dooku’s brusque approach to questioning, but this roundabout charade is becoming equally as exhausting. Obi-Wan is no career politician, not even remotely, but he is luckily equipped with enough common sense to know that proving difficult with the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic will do him no favors. This isn’t Shah Tezh with Dooku, he will not get farther across the board by sacrificing a few pieces, but he can remain in good social graces with one of the most influential men in the Galaxy if he sacrifices information. He’s careful that his next breath matches his previous, that his expression does not falter. 

“It is not something that I discuss with many, but I find that I am more adept at helping others through the finer points of policy and law than with a laser sword,” He lies, repeating the same joke he tells anyone who refuses to let him hedge when asked. Obi-Wan fidgets with the hem of his sleeve briefly to keep from tapping his fingers against his leg. His stare drifts to find Fett in the crowd at the thought of the tic. Against all odds, it’s somehow become difficult to place the man in full armor.

“Forgive me if this is too forthcoming,” Palpatine begins, lowering his voice and accidentally clueing Obi-Wan into the inevitable truth that it would benefit both parties to end this segment of conversation before it begins, “No one would blame you if you made your decision because of what you endured. I understand that Master Jinn was like a father to you,” It certainly _is_ too forthcoming, and Obi-Wan’s intuition was right: this isn’t a topic he wants to discuss with a stranger, let alone one who has the ear of everyone in the Republic. The itch at the base of his neck, the one that Obi-Wan had ignored and all but was rid of just prior, becomes impossible to ignore. It’s the sinking feeling that he’s about to take a misstep into a hoard of fire beetles, that someone is watching his movements too closely. He breathes deeply, spends a too-short moment refortifying his shields. It’s irrational, it’s just because conversation is picking at a scab that hasn’t fully healed.

“He was my teacher and mentor, a dear friend. Though I can assure you that my departure from the Order was a choice made independently from the events that transpired in Theed.” There were moments Obi-Wan has doubted the validity of that statement. However, these days if there is one thing he knows for certain, it’s that had the Order accepted Anakin, he would have stayed. The only correlation that exists between his retreat from Coruscant and his master’s untimely death is the discomfort that is now resurfacing. 

“You must miss him,” Palpatine continues onwards, seemingly unaware that he’s plucking at the thread of thought blissfully ignorant of its susceptibility to snapping. Obi-Wan bites his tongue, refuses indulging the Chancellor any further on the matter. He subtly turns his body away from the conversation, masking another search for the aforementioned bounty hunter with the guise of people watching. 

“He was an admirable man.” He non-answers, content to let conversation dwindle away. Surely, the Chancellor will grow bored any moment now.

Obi-Wan fights the powerful urge to groan when that moment isn’t quite soon enough, another guest entering their space. Of course, it’s reasonable that people want to talk with the Chancellor, that doesn’t mean that Obi-Wan wants to be strung along in more awkward conversation though. He isn’t paying much attention to the new conversationalist, aside from taking note that he immediately enters discussion like he’s already well acquainted with Palpatine. Obi-Wan is much too busy trying to find a new out than he is keeping track of who this person is. It’s a moot point though, because Palpatine’s gesturing an open hand in Kenobi’s direction. 

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi, a former Jedi Knight,” Obi-Wan doesn’t bother correcting him about the status of Knighthood, at this point. The man doesn’t stop long enough to breathe before continuing in conversation, let alone leave a gap where it would be appropriate to intervene. Obi-Wan keeps track of the discussion at hand with distractedly, trying to quell the panic brewing under his skin. It’s easily maintainable, at least for now, but every time he tries to form any sort of conclusion about what his being here means, the connections that he’s managed to gather slip away from him. All he can do is observe and listen. 

“Ah! You’re the one who dug up that age-old legal proceeding on…oh what was it? It was copyright claim litigation, correct?” The new conversation partner interjects suddenly with a snap of his fingers, as if he’s just remembered. Oh, Force. He did do that, didn’t he? It took days to find that small loophole from who knows how long ago and in no certain terms. Obi-Wan didn’t think that would be anything of note in this particular community.

“Oh, yes, I suppose that was me,” He half-heartedly confirms, not particularly thrilled that he’s becoming the main topic once again.

“I used to be in law myself, you know! I know that sort of digging takes no small amount of effort. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few cases had to be revisited because of that time constraint you found. You clearly have a passion, why is it you don’t pursue law proper?” Obi-Wan stifles a laugh. Passion, he says. The irony exists on multiple levels.

“I don’t–” He begins but is quickly cut off by a voice he recognizes all too well.

“Kenobi is convinced that no one would sponsor him to pursue a degree because he lacks formal education, as if a Jedi upbringing isn’t anything but intensive, not to mention his near glowing resume, isn’t testament enough to his skill,” Obi-Wan sighs out of relief, turning to face the familiar presence of his employer. Novotny stands a few inches shorter than himself, but that doesn’t stop him from immediately overshadowing Obi-Wan’s presence. He can trust that he’ll be able to duck out of conversation shortly, get a grip on himself once more. “Impressive that you already have the ear of the Supreme Chancellor, Obi-Wan. Though at this point, I’m hardly surprised to see it. Here,” He says, gloved hands roughly shoving a glass of – Obi-Wan isn’t sure what it is, actually – towards him. He realizes a second too late that his hands are shaking. That can’t be good. “Drink. You look like you could use it,” Novotny says off-handedly, then immediately inserts himself in the conversation like he was here all along.

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye draws Obi-Wan’s attention away. His head jerks too quickly to be deemed natural, though none of the others seem to notice. He must be losing his mind, because the space is miraculously empty. No one blocks the view of the window, allowing a perfect line of sight to the specks of light dotting the rest of the visible city. _Leave, leave, leave._ It’s more a feeling than the word itself, deep in his very being. Obi-Wan’s stomach drops. Not this again, he just got over it.

“Young Kenobi’s humility is commendable, though it is an oddity in this crowd,” Palpatine jokes amiably, causing the new conversationalist to chuckle as well. Obi-Wan follows suit, if only to keep the appearance of social normalcy up. He doesn’t look away from the open space. Tries to listen to more of the conversations in the room. If something is about to happen, he can’t leave. He isn’t armed, isn’t – well, he isn’t anything, but he can’t leave these people. 

“I don’t think the man is capable of accepting a compliment,” Novotny counters, transitioning smoothly into an introduction and more or less advertising himself and his accomplishments. The man missed his calling as a particularly adept politician, that much is clear. Obi-Wan extends his senses in the Force, accepting the vague claustrophobia setting in as he becomes aware of more and more individual presences in the room. In doing so, he ignores every tug of fabric against his joints, the too-warm air around him. He condenses his awareness of his own person into a singular point outside of his own body. He tries to deduce the threat that may or may not be present, tries to wrap his head around the warnings, but he can’t think in a coherent way, like there’s –

Pain rakes through his mind, horribly and terrifyingly familiar in a way that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. _Someone here._ The thought reverberates, echoes back to him in a foreign voice as if confirming the suspicion.

– _always two there are always two there are always two there are always two there are always two._

“I’m afraid I’m not brave enough for politics,” It must be him speaking, it’s his voice after all, but he can’t recall purposefully forming the words as his subconscious takes over. He isn’t even sure what was asked. He clenches his jaw, tries to control his breathing, breathe through the pain, locks his mind down as best as he can.

“Oh, accept the compliment, Kenobi!” Novotny scolds sarcastically, smacking his arm. Obi-Wan nearly bites his tongue in half, eyes drifting across the room. “If you were half as competent a Jedi as you are at everything else, then it’s a wonder they ever let you leave.” _Leave_ , the urging parrots back. 

“From what I’ve heard, he didn’t wait for permission from the Order,” Palpatine shares, though where the man heard that he can’t begin to guess. “I understand that you killed a Sith Lord?” 

“No,” Obi-Wan counters, more of a plea to get the other to stop speaking than anything, losing grasp on what small amount of control he had remaining. It’s too quiet to be effective, and he ignores the various shocked responses from the group. Sith are a legend, millennia dead. Why would the Chancellor share that? Why would the Order share that with him? Obi-Wan himself didn’t even know for certain if that was truth, and if it were, surely the Council would have stressed how important secrecy was in the matter. Inciting fear would only make the potential threat worse. This isn’t right, he shouldn’t know that. 

_He was on Naboo._ A voice whispers in the back of his mind, insistent. But it’s wrong, Palpatine wasn’t there. Palpatine was on Coruscant, a newly inducted Chancellor – 

_He was there_. It repeats, this time more forcefully. He feels his grip on the glass in his hand tighten. He forgot he was even holding it. 

Obi-Wan turns back to the conversation, taking shallow breaths. A chill dragging up his spine and stilling at the base of his skull, refusing to dissipate. _Leave, leave, leave,_ something deep inside of him compels once more. He’s inclined to listen this time around, suddenly desperate to get as far from here as possible and any and all eyes on him _away_. He blinks against the still overwhelming piercing pain – it feels like it’s trying to pull apart his brain, or at the very least carve its way through by force – and tries to get a grasp on conversation again, to feign normalcy even though he’s painfully aware the way his lungs rattle and his breath wheezes and catches in his throat when his vision falters. 

This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong, and no one else seems to be bothered except for him – maybe, maybe Fett. Maybe if he can find Fett, he can tell him what’s happening. What would he tell him, though? That he has a feeling? The man would laugh in his face! The bounty hunter probably knows more about what’s happening than _he_ does! The odds that Fett would even bother with him are slim to none. A non-starter, _stupid_. He needs to leave. He needs, he needs to –

 _Stay._ That same voice suggests. 

No. No not stay. He feels like he’s being eaten alive he needs to get away from all of these people and into the fresh air and shock himself back into sanity by standing in the wind and the snow. 

The discussion does not notice his quickly descending thoughts. The words of the on-going conversation swim in his ears, only processed in selective chunks. 

_The Queen is quite young_ – His free hand scratches at his neck out of habit, even though the usual worry spot is hidden far beneath his suddenly itchy attire, purposefully out of sight. 

_Ah, a diplomatic mission._ Obi-Wan knows that someone is staring at him expectantly. Feels the stare the same way he feels the way his boots constrict his feet and the way the aroma of the room seems to intensify. Someone places a hand on his shoulder. Someone speaks for him. He smiles. Tries to. 

_Valorum’s folly,_ the conversation must continue forward, _always was spineless._ The hand on his shoulder tightens its grip and shakes him slightly. It’s meant to be friendly, surely. Obi-Wan acts the part expected of him. He laughs while his thoughts are unraveling. 

_Just doing his job_. His vision blurs again. 

_Is it true?_ It’s not a voice he’s familiar with. 

_The Sith? Don’t be ridiculous._

He tries to blink away the dark spots accumulating in his vision, focus on something in the room, but everything is too bright and moving too fast and he’s no longer processing any fraction of the conversation, blood ringing in his ears too loudly for him to focus on just one voice. Brief flashes of faces of people he doesn’t know, of places he’s never been, like the visions he used to get as a child, flicker before him with every blink and oh Force, he’s losing his mind. 

Everything is clove and cinnamon and bergamot overwhelming and stifling and clogging his senses and the cacophony of too many conversations and aside laughter and music playing somewhere and a glass shattering and the itchy fabric that he can’t escape hanging too heavily on his limbs. _He can’t escape can’t escape can’t escape_ –  
“If you’ll excuse me.” He says suddenly, voice miraculously stable, pushing the drink back into Novotny’s hands and breaking out of the circle. Obi-Wan can hear Novotny question after him peripherally, concerned but not overly so, and it helps his nerves. At least he knows he isn’t visibly falling apart. He can resign himself to that.

It’s a miracle that he reaches the ‘fresher without causing more of a scene. Obi-Wan doesn’t even remember walking in, much less the walk. He runs the sink. Rolls up his sleeves as best as he can. Stares himself down in the mirror. Splashes water on his face. Does it again. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. Breathes. Or tries to. His lungs burn and spasm and choke against the effort, prying up a dry cough from deep in his chest that feels like coarse sand against his throat. 

“That’s not exactly laying low.” The flat comment echoes in the otherwise empty room. Obi-Wan at least has a strong enough grasp on the present remaining to recognize it as Fett lurking by the doorway. “What’s wrong.” He more commands than asks. Obi-Wan finds that he isn’t sure how to answer. What is wrong? That’s the question of the hour. That he’s losing his mind? That there must be a mole in the Order for the Chancellor to know about the apparent return of the Sith? That he’s spreading that information with little discretion? That Obi-Wan isn’t even a position to help? He can’t begin to think through why Fett is standing here, instead of doing whatever job he has to do. He tries to swallow down the panic, tries to shut up the voices, but bolstering his shields makes his vision swim while dropping them makes the motion of every presence around him so blinding and everything else so loud and it’s a matter of choosing what pain he prefers.

“I need–I need to,” Obi-Wan paces back and forth the ‘fresher floor, pulling at his hair and trying to think through just one coherent sentence. “ _Leave_. I need to leave. It’s, I–” He stumbles uncharacteristically, trying to focus past the _run, run, run, run, run_ and the threats whispered in his ear and he can _feel_ the alien presence insisting entry once more into his thoughts. 

“I heard the Chancellor talking to you about Naboo–”

“This isn’t about that, I’m not–I’m not fragile,” Obi-Wan raises his voice, finding it difficult to filter his frustration through the absolute screaming in the back of his mind. Worse than Coruscant, and Naboo, and anything before that – _run, leave, what are you still doing here?_ No, no he needs to _stay_ he needs to _talk_ – he fights the urge to scream, hardly able to keep track of where he is, much less what’s being said to him. The room spins around him. 

_Thorn in my side. More trouble than you’re worth_. Obi-Wan chokes out some terrible sounding sob, mind going absolutely blank. 

“Hey, okay. How about we sit down–” 

“Don’t–don’t touch me!” Obi-Wan swats the hand away, only to return to dragging roughly through his hair, tugging at his scalp like the pain will give him the clarity necessary to keep his mind from being rummaged through.

“Okay. Okay, alright. Not touching,” He’s vaguely aware of Fett holding his hands up as a show of good faith. Obi-Wan tries to swallow down all of the thoughts yelling at him long enough to take a ragged breath. 

“They’re in my _head_ , I can’t – I can’t, I don’t–” Obi-Wan doesn’t have to think about how he’s intending on finishing that statement before Fett speaks up.

“I could kill you easily.” He observes casually, and Obi-Wan blinks away his bleary vision as the room refuses to stay still on its axis, trying to formulate some sarcastic response to the off-handed and sudden remark. Nothing comes, so instead he grits his teeth and palms at where his saber should be with no success. It sounds like someone’s holding his head underwater, it’s disorienting and frustrating and – and it makes him think twice about the words.

“What did you say?” He asks, reaching out to place a hand on the wall in hopes of steadying himself. He can’t see Fett’s face, but he can imagine that the man is squinting at him critically. 

“I said you’re hyperventilating.”

“That makes, that makes much more sense,” Obi-Wan heaves with no small amount of effort, shifting all of his weight to be propped up by the wall. The solid mass of it at his back helps the constant motion of the room settle down. 

“I can kill you with bare hands, or did you forget–” Obi-Wan shuts his eyes tightly, tires to recalibrate himself to his surroundings. It’s true, he knows it’s true, but it’s all wrong. It’s too forthcoming, too, too – Obi-Wan groans, the effort of trying to parse reality through what warped shards of it he can manage grasping too much to keep up. Breathe. Jango told him to breathe. Easier said than done. Still, the purposeful intent behind the action gives him at least something to focus on. It clears the fog in his brain, though not by much.

“Say, you don’t have the desire to kill me right now, do you?” He asks, “At least, more so than usual,” He tacks on, because he might be losing his mind, but his humor is still intact.

“No. Though I can’t say the same for whoever invited you here.” Fett says, removing his helmet after a moment of silence. Oh. Obi-Wan decides he much preferred not knowing what the man looks like when this concerned. The expression looks out of place on his face.  
“Ah. I’m hearing things, then. Though I suppose that’s a small relief, given the–” He has to pause to hack up a lung, “Given the circumstances.” He rests his head against the wall and screws his eyes shut, trying to ignore the urge to look behind him. There literally cannot be anything behind him, it is a wall.

“That sounds…good,” Jango supplies, more sarcasm than anything. Obi-Wan tries to take a few careful breaths. It’s becoming harder to ignore the way the pain spikes with every inhalation of oxygen, especially as the voices playing in back of his mind multiply and grow louder. “What exactly is going on, Kenobi?”

“Oh, nothing really,” He can’t elaborate before the short-lived lapse in the total assault on his senses returns with full fervor. He bites back a yelp of pain. It feels like someone is trying to rip his brain apart and break him down entirely, reduce him to a quivering and mumbling mess. They aren’t exactly _failing_ at accomplishing that goal, either. “If I-if I pass out, I’m terribly sorry,” 

“Kriffing hells – no, nope. Come on, up. You’re gonna crack your head open,” Fett immediately reaches out to grab his shoulder, stabilizing him surprisingly well despite the way everything is moving around them. “You need to sit, then I’ll let go of you, okay?” Jango tries to reason, but unfortunately for him, Obi-Wan is not in the mood to negotiate, too pre-occupied on the flashes of visions – are they visions? – he keeps receiving to care about the contact. Planets of fire and an empty Temple and more images that he can’t put into context.

“Shouldn’t have known that,” He babbles on unintelligibly, “He shouldn’t have known that!”

“Shouldn’t have known what, Obi-Wan?” 

“There’s,” Obi-Wan struggles to take a breath, clutching at his chest. He shouldn’t be sharing this, but Fett already knows, doesn’t he? He had mentioned something about the suspected Sith assassin – no, no, _Anakin_ had. Anakin who is _here_ , he’s in this city, with whoever the person in his brain is. He needs to keep the boy out of his thoughts as best as possible, hide him. Secrecy won’t make a difference if he dies in this room, and that certainly feels like a possibility right now. “There’s no way we would have known he was Sith, that’s–” He heaves a ragged breath. “That’s not something the Jedi would advertise, even to the kriffing Chancellor. They were still running circles around it. He knows, he knows and they’re here and I need to leave _now_. If they find out about–” He cuts himself off. Why does this matter? He’s so close but he can’t quite grasp it.

“No, come on, stay with me – you said there’s something in your head, yeah? Is it, do you think,” Jango hesitates, “Do you think it’s something Sith related? Like actually?”

“I don’t know!” He snaps, but he can’t hear Fett’s response before one of the voices in his head goes up several decibels. 

_You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you? Usually they go mad by now, at least when they start off like you_. He wrenches his eyes shut as the taunting rings out, digging up the last shreds of his resolve. Whatever – whoever¬ – this is, he refuses to give them the full satisfaction of his personal ruin. So, he digs his heels in, clenches his jaw, and responds to the sentiment with the same thing he’s confronted every threat of impending darkness with:

_I will not fall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on Tumblr [ here. ](https://rejectedbard.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Have a good week.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very late, and I’m very sorry. The good news is that now that the semester is over, I should be updating back on schedule! (About once a week, usually late on Sundays)
> 
> Per usual, thank you so much to everyone for reading this and interacting with it in literally anyway. Your kindness really pulled me through, to be honest. You have no idea how much it means to me. I’m blowing a kiss to each and every one of you.  
> I kind of got carried away, but what else is new. Enjoy! <3

Somebody wants Kenobi dead.

That much was abundantly clear before Jango even stepped foot into the ‘fresher to find the man having a nervous breakdown. It was apparent from the moment he skimmed over the list of invitees. His sight stalled on Kenobi’s name, and he forced himself to read each character of it with painstakingly critical eye to make sure he hadn’t misread, then continued to hunt for anyone with the same name and a more explicable reason to be invited. Instead, all that came up was the name mentioned in footnotes of a few court cases, with even fewer references appearing a handful of times in the transcripts of depositions. There was nothing that would indicate his greater relevance to the present population. In fact, it seems Kenobi was nothing but honest in asserting that he was trying to remain as low profile as possible. That means that there are only two possible reasons the man is not only here, but muttering unintelligibly, violent tremors wracking his body in waves, all while relying on Jango to keep him upright.

Option one: Kenobi is, in fact, an unhinged Force-wielder who has fallen to the dark side (though to be completely honest, Jango has no idea what that entails), and is dead set on killing the Senator-Elect as well as anyone else here, even if that includes himself. The tip-off was rather clear in intent. The threat outlined the reasoning in all except name, but there’s only one person here who has the potential to be a Dark Jedi. Then there’s option two: someone has gone to a lot of trouble to frame Kenobi, to the extent of getting someone to poke a nerve and induce bloody panic in the man. Granted, said poked nerve could be quite a few things, but the voices Kenobi claims to be hearing being chalked up to the Sith? Jango’s quicker to assign blame to combat fatigue. Still, it doesn’t sit right with him. He’s seen plenty fatigue – experienced it himself, even – but this feels different, loathe as he is to admit it.

Maybe Jango would be more inclined to buy into the former theory if he hadn’t met Kenobi prior, if he hadn’t accidentally found himself at a dinner table across from him less than a day ago. Then, he wouldn’t already know that the only motivation Kenobi has in any action taken is unyielding dedication to the Skywalkers. Jango didn’t miss the way the former Jedi snapped when he had been accused of doing the family wrong, and he’s acutely aware of what it must take to leave behind the only home that he had ever known for the sake of one kid. There is a lot about Kenobi that Jango is wary of ¬– pages of messy handwritten code and secret comms that scream ulterior motives with unknown correspondents and lists of planets that mean nothing to anyone else – but if he knows one thing for certain, it’s that Kenobi would not endanger the Skywalkers. That rules out option one, leaving only the latter.

Somebody _really_ wants Kenobi dead.

After Kenobi seems to come to the tail end of another fit of convulsions, Jango breaks his on-going train of thought to talk to him while he can. After three of these cycles, he’s aware that the other is at least more lucid in these in-between moments.

“You still here?” Jango asks, unsure of what else to say. If Kenobi has expressed that he doesn’t know what’s happening in his own head, then Jango himself certainly has no clue about the matter. He clenches his jaw, overly aware of Kenobi’s ability to see his expression with his helmet still perched on the nearby counter. Part of him wants to abandon the man here – technically he still has a job to do, even if the back of his mind knows now, without a doubt, that the job revolves around Kenobi – but even without that incentive, he’s unsure he would be able to leave him here like this.

“Y-Yes,” Kenobi manages through grit teeth, eyes still wrenched shut and breaths uneven. The Sith. This time last year, Jango wouldn’t have even considered it. He certainly wouldn’t account for this display because of it or any other type of theoretical dark side banthashit as suggested. Now, though, he isn’t as sure. Memories of the Bando Gora are still too fresh in his mind, dredged up against his will by circumstance. It’s remarkably easy to recall the feeling of a thousand whispering voices rummaging through his thoughts with no regard for the supposed sanctity or privacy of his own mind. Remembering the sensation makes it nearly impossible for him to leave Kenobi to fend for himself. If Zam hadn’t managed to save Jango’s skin before Vosa showed up and talked him through the aftermath, he’s not sure what would have happened. 

“Okay, well, that’s something. We need to get you out of here while we can.” Jango explains, stating the obvious in hopes that it might offer Kenobi some clarity. Giving him a goal could help keep him semi-present.

“I’m afraid that may be easier said than done like this,” Kenobi’s hand grips the side of his head in pain. “This is rather embarrassing,” He adds with a half-hearted laugh. It sounds pathetic, despite the inevitable attempt to ease the tension that is being so finely curated by the confusion and uncertainty circling this whole event. Jango is near positive nothing could ease the dread that’s been steadily creeping into his system all night. He’s been ignoring it thus far, chalking it up to the general unease about everything, but now it feels more like a warning then a suggestion to show caution and restraint.

“At least you’re vaguely aware of your surroundings, now,” Jango offers in return, making the executive decision to get him out of here with or without the other’s compliance. He redons his helmet and continues to adjust his grip on Kenobi’s arm, physically dragging him away from the wall. “You can’t stay here. Come on,” He isn’t stupid enough to think that their temporary privacy is going to last, and he would rather not try to cover for Kenobi if he lapses into more incoherent rambling and borderline seizing. Luckily, Kenobi isn’t clear minded enough to fight against the motion this time around, and the only resistance is his feet stumbling over each other.

Jango’s sure that his being offered this job in the first place was a calculated move: what is he known for if not completing jobs efficiently and effectively? If somebody wants Kenobi dead with as little questions asked as possible, then they’ve done a great job covering their bases. Kenobi’s presence is just glaring enough to be compelling, and with planted evidence the narrative is believable enough. Everyone knows Jango hates Jedi, it’s not an entirely unfounded assumption that he would have easily taken the bait. Under usual circumstances, Jango would have already singled out Kenobi and gotten rid of him in one way or another. The miscalculation here is that Obi-Wan Kenobi isn’t a Jedi. He isn’t much of anything, in fact. There is very little Jango is certain of in this situation, but he knows, without a doubt in his mind, what his role was expected to be. Therein lies the second fatal miscalculation of it all: he isn’t about to play into a plan no one has bothered to fill him in on. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being used as a pawn. He’d rather not play at all.

“Wait,” Kenobi suddenly orders, effectively cutting off Jango’s beginning attempts at unraveling the situation and somehow finding his eyes even through the dark visor. 

“We don’t have time.” He responds flatly. He does not want to be the one to talk to the Skywalkers if something goes wrong, and the longer that Kenobi is here, the more likely something will go wrong. He already spends a criminal amount of time needlessly fretting over Anakin and Shmi, as is (and that in and of itself is probably a problem he should address sooner rather than later, he needs to get a grip).

“ _Jango_.” Kenobi urges, his stare sharp and fully present for the first time since their initial conversation tonight. He still looks like shit: face too pallid and breaths ragged, grown out hair visibly stress-raked and full-body shivers still coursing through him at odd intervals. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

“What?”

“If-if something happens, will you make sure they’re okay?” He doesn’t need to elaborate any more than that, there are only so many people he could be talking about. Jango decides not to think about how little thought it requires to formulate a response or how quickly the words are on his tongue.

“You have my word.” Unlike the first time Jango made that claim, Kenobi nods in recognition, looking at least somewhat relieved. Well, either relieved or resigned, though neither option is particularly comforting given the frigid contempt he was met with yesterday. Kenobi is desperate, and that’s reason enough for concern to leech its way back into Jango’s system at full force.

“I’m very grateful that you haven’t killed me yet,” Of all things that he could respond with, Jango was not expecting that. Kenobi must be further out of his mind than Jango thought to be joking like that right now. He punctuates the sentiment with a sorrowful laugh, and Jango is reciprocating in kind before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, well, I figure Anakin’d be upset if I did.” 

“Don’t, don’t¬¬–” Kenobi doesn’t get the chance to complete the thought before his hand latches onto Jango’s arm with no warning and a startling intensity. His head lolls back, eyes closing as it does as if in a fit of nausea. 

“Shit.” Jango seethes through grit teeth, an assortment of probable causes flooding his mind. He tries to connect dots as quickly as he can: a potential Sith on Tatooine, the same on Naboo, Kenobi’s insistence on leaving Coruscant on the account of being followed. Maybe the Sith really are returning and want revenge on Kenobi for killing one of their own. Maybe it’s related to the Trade Federation, angry that he aided in ending their blockade and shedding light on the already glaring ethical short sidedness attached to the coalition. Or maybe it’s only about Kenobi through affiliation. 

It’s still unclear to him why the Order rejected Anakin in the first place, but the recurring threads of logic all include him being both powerful and volatile. Jango doesn’t know a lot about Jedi philosophy, but even he knows that there are repeated mantras regarding emotion for a reason – probably the same reason that Kenobi having a breakdown is unsafe for everyone present. The Sith have allegedly wound up wherever Kenobi has been, true, but also where Anakin has been. Kenobi’s still spaced, potentially instigated by Jango dropping the name. If someone is in Kenobi’s mind, he just confirmed both of them have frequent contact with the kid if it weren’t already certain. _Shit, shit, shit._  
“Okay.” Kenobi says after a moment, “I think I’m okay.” He adds. Jango doesn’t believe him for a second. His jaw is visibly clenched, hands fisted so tightly his knuckles are white. Although he looks physically unstable, it seems as though he’s at least found some resolve, and that’ll have to be good enough for now. He nods like he’s steeling himself, coming to some silent decision, before finally moving forward, back towards the cacophony of conversation and stray laughter that bleeds through the walls.

Jango has questions. He’s perfectly aware that Kenobi, even if he weren’t falling apart at the seams, wouldn’t have the answers that needed to put the pieces of all of this together. He might know what people could want with either Anakin or himself, and he might even know who it is behind all of this, but right now, Jango would rather keep Kenobi walking in a semi-straight line and cognizant enough to make it out of here. Questions would only be a distraction and could draw unwanted attention. While he might not practice restraint often, Jango has learned patience in his lifetime. So, instead of berating Kenobi with questions in less than ideal circumstances, he resigns himself to waiting.

He watches the movement of people in the main room when they reach it, mentally taking note of who walks where and looks where or glances in their direction, searching for anyone who may show any sign of discontent that Kenobi is alive and almost well. 

There is one question that he should ask sooner than later, considering the determining factor it has on what decision Jango makes next. 

“Do they have to be here?” He asks, hushed. For a moment, he’s afraid that Kenobi doesn’t read between the lines. He doesn’t look to Jango, instead seeming to be overly interested in the gold embossed wall sconces. 

“I don’t know.” He answers with more composure than he’s had in the past half-hour, using the same tone that he uses when he says that things are complicated.

“Great.” Jango accidentally says aloud.

“I think so. It’s a learned skill, I’m sure, but getting in someone’s head either requires proximity or,” Kenobi trails off, stutter-stepping briefly.

“Or?” Jango prompts when he doesn’t continue.

“Or having been in someone’s head before, like a Force bond but wrong,” 

“Come again?” He asks in disbelief. Everything about that sounds terrible. Jango can’t begin to guess what a kriffing _Force bond_ is, much less what it is when it goes wrong. Every time Jango learns something new about the Jedi or the Force, he wishes he hadn’t. Kenobi sighs.

“Yes, Jango, they’re probably here.” 

“Could you not have just said that?” Even losing his mind, it seems Kenobi is content to make things more complex than they need to be. Maybe he _was_ invited here legitimately. He certainly talks like one of the politicians they’re passing by. 

“It’s a little difficult to think clearly right now.” He responds, finally looking at him.

“Still bad?” Jango asks, figuring that’s an okay enough question that doesn’t require a lot of energy to answer. Though, Kenobi can probably find a way to convolute it to obscurity. 

“Yes, but better. My shields seem to be working to some degree, now, at least,” He says, meeting the stare of a stranger standing nearby, “I’m hoping that they’re getting as tired as me.” He adds in means of explanation. It doesn’t do Jango much good. He swears to never get involved with Force users again, this is absolutely infuriating. 

“You sound better.” He confirms, anyways. It seems talking might actually be helping Kenobi, so he might as well engage in some degree of conversation. It would be better to at least get out of the main room before having to physically drag him again. It’s already difficult enough having to walk at the slow pace required so as not draw attention to themselves, it’s infuriating how long it’s taking for them to cross a simple room.

“I’m not hearing things, anymore.” Kenobi adds, sounding almost optimistic.

“Yeah, well, you still look like shit.” 

“I figured as much, given the people staring at me and not the fully armored man next to me.” Jango lets him have it, despite knowing that aristocrats of this caliber tend to blur anyone in armor into the background anyways. It’s a social status thing, they don’t see Jango as worth their time. Just another charming custom of the Core. 

The room grows unquestionably quieter all of the sudden, the eyes of the partygoers along the wall moving from darting awkwardly between Kenobi and whoever they are talking with to locking onto something near the center of the room. Jango’s line of sight follows almost subconsciously, finding the subject of the unsettling change in volume almost as soon as he does. Standing near enough to the center, a gaggle of sycophants surrounding him, is no one else but the Chancellor of the kriffing Republic. He has a drink half-raised in one hand like he’s about to speak on behalf of someone, a too-practiced smile plastered on his face. 

“If I may,” He begins, though it seems he’s already decided that he can without anyone else’s input. Kenobi stops in his tracks, staring intently at Palpatine, and Jango finds himself nodding towards the exit aggressively. This is the perfect diversion should Kenobi lapse again or if someone, remarkably, wants to talk with him. They can’t just throw it away to hear some political double speak. “Alderaan has long been one of the Republic’s most treasured assets, one which we are lucky to have. As your newly inducted Supreme Chancellor, I am honored to be here tonight to celebrate the continued insurance of that legacy,” He takes a pregnant pause, and it’s probably for the best that no one can see Jango roll his eyes. There has to be an alternate angle to this, who calls an ally an asset? He shouldn’t be wasting energy thinking about that when he already has enough on his plate, as is. “To Bail Organa. Let’s hope that this Bail finds more success in committee than the last one,” Palpatine concludes with a good-natured laugh, echoed by the rest of the rest of the hall. 

Jango feels his brow furrow, his own pace slowing as he quickly allows himself to glance at the man of the hour’s expression. Bail Organa, for what it’s worth, appears to be responding in tandem. He laughs easily, an elbow shoving his wife’s – the Queen of Alderaan’s, Jango reminds himself – jovially. He takes a sip of his drink good-naturedly, quietly saying something to Palpatine before thanking the crowd. It’s what’s expected of him, but nothing more than that. Even Jango can spot the oddity that is Organa refusing to address further than that. Either Organa is an isolated case of a politician who isn’t dreadfully long-winded, or there was way more context in Palpatine’s single comment than Jango is aware of.

He turns his attention back to the situation at hand. Theoretically, if someone had hired him with the intent to kill Kenobi and the professionalism to cover their tracks well enough to be mostly untraceable, then they would be watching. No one is good enough to avoid letting their eyes drift towards a target, Jango’s been in the industry long enough to know that. The real anomaly is that no one looks at all, aside from the obvious passive glances. If no one in here is visibly perturbed by the fact that Jango is very definitely not killing Kenobi, that means that someone elsewhere potentially is. That does not bode well when trying to sneak someone away. Maintaining the same excruciatingly slow pace, Jango watches as Organa shrugs out of conversation with the Chancellor and seamlessly turns into another, making distance as casually as possible. It’s admittedly impressive, but probably an expected social skill from someone in this field. 

Jango does a quick double take in the previous direction, feeling someone’s eyes on him. Someone is indeed looking, but at Kenobi and not him. The Chancellor’s stare drifts as quickly as Jango finds it, but it was definitely there. Palpatine was, for whatever reason, looking to Kenobi. Kenobi who said Chancellor immediately sought out to enter conversation with and discuss Naboo. That in and of itself wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary; Palpatine was a former Nubian Senator who owes his rise to power to the Crisis. What is concerning is what Kenobi had said about the Chancellor potentially knowing about the Sith’s involvement.

 _You’ve got to be kidding_. Jango had been serious when he said that Obi-Wan might be making enemies in high places – he has no idea what Kenobi did during his time as the Senate’s prized guard dog and what sort of enemies he has accumulated, and that’s not even counting the fiasco on Naboo – but the Supreme Chancellor of the motherkriffing Republic? And Jango thought he had bad luck.

“What?” Kenobi asks, apparently picking up on Jango’s discontent. 

“Nothing.” He brushes it off easily enough. There’s not enough to go on even if he were to say something – certainly not enough to go around making accusations that the Chancellor might be in bed with the Trade Federation and transitively the Sith – based on a gut feeling. The Jedi could have a leak, which is decidedly more likely, and after Kenobi ran from conversation like he did (despite managing to remain somewhat composed until he was in another room), it’s not unfounded that Palpatine could just be concerned for the well-being of the person who helped save his people. Jango isn’t going to jump to conclusions until he’s been paid for this gig, _if_ he gets paid. In theory, he should. Afterall, he is preventing a potentially lethal event from occurring, it just happens to surround Kenobi. There could, of course, be backlash against Jango for refusing to kill him that would ruin his prospects of a payday, though. This is precisely why he avoids getting involved in any sort of political situation.

From what peripheral vision he has access to, he can see Kenobi’s steps falter. He doesn’t wait for whatever’s about to happen next, too close to getting away from most of these people to care about what little backlash there may be from getting them out of here before the manic rambling starts again. He’s met with no resistance when he grabs Kenobi to forcibly drag him to at a quicker pace, finally entering a smaller hallway away from most prying eyes. Being apart from the larger clusters of people means that Jango can actually start thinking through what it is they’re doing. Unfortunately, Kenobi seems to be right back to where he was when Jango first found him, just barely holding on to reality – either that or so far out of it that he can’t even process what’s happening.

“Kenobi!” Someone calls from the end of the hall, out of breath from catching up with them at the new pace. Kenobi himself is in no condition to be responding like he ought to be, so Jango finds himself speaking before he even turns to see who it is that knows Kenobi well enough to remember his name, much less to want to be speaking with him.

“Kriff off,” Jango snaps, patience already worn thin and in no mood to be having a conversation on behalf of someone else. It’s only when he fully processes who it is that he’s speaking to that he regrets it. It’s not that he minds offending high-ranking officials, he would just rather get paid. Fortunately, Bail Organa does not seem overly offended. 

“What’s happening?” Organa instead asks, looking to immediately notice that something is definitely wrong with Kenobi.

“Uh,” Jango responds stupidly, no lie coming to him quickly enough to be believable. It wouldn’t have done him much good: there’s a slim chance he would be able to deliver it well enough, anyways, especially not with Kenobi next to him looking like he does. “You know him?” He asks instead, mostly in disbelief. Kenobi and Organa have no good reason to have met that he knows of. If Organa is going to be trouble, he would prefer to know sooner rather than later.

“We’ve only met a couple of times, but I – is everything okay?” Organa questions in. Kenobi’s direction. 

“I’m afraid I’ve had–I’ve had too much to drink,” Kenobi stumbles out and Jango has to check a relieved sigh. It sounds almost painful coming from him, like he had to summon more energy than he currently has in order to respond with the simple statement. Even so, Jango’s never been more thankful for someone else’s ability to lie off the cuff. 

“Are you sure, Obi-Wan? You’re uh, you’re bleeding,” Organa points out with a hushed voice, looking behind him almost nervously. 

Oh shit, is he? Organa pointedly wipes a hand under his nose.

“Am I?” Kenobi asks, unknowingly voicing Jango’s exact thought. He looks to the other as he mirrors the Senator’s actions, pulling away his hand and sure enough. That’s definitely not normal. “Well, that’s new.” He jokes a little too light heartedly, and if the man wasn’t already suffering enough and a direct relation to the contract Jango signed, he would leave him like this.

“What do you want?” Jango asks, voice too sharp to be pulled off as natural. There’s a reason he doesn’t deal with politicians or anything that requires negotiating, and this is it. 

“I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Bail continues, ignoring Jango and instead speaking directly to Kenobi. If it didn’t look like he was about to collapse where he stands, Jango might even respect Organa for it. 

“I wanted to thank you for inadvertently helping Breha with. – are you, do you need me to call for someone?” Bail stops speaking when Kenobi leans completely onto Jango to stay at least vaguely upright. Helping _Breha Organa_? Even if inadvertently, what has Kenobi been getting himself into? 

“Do you want me to kill him?” Jango asks point-blank, figuring he has nothing to lose. If the Senator of Alderaan – not to mention the husband of Queen Breha – wants Kenobi dead, then Jango is most certainly out of his depth. There’s not much he can do except hope the answer is no.

“What? I don’t–” He doesn’t have time to hear out whatever it is that Organa is about to say, assuming based on the discomfort and shock in the man’s eyes that there is no inherent murderous intent.

“Do you know who hired me?”

“Specifically? Someone on staff, I believe. What is going on?” That’s completely unhelpful. Jango steamrolls the other question, unsure of where to even begin.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Jango he asks in turn, desperate for more information. Even lack of knowledge from Organa’s end might be useful. 

“Something about a potential threat, I didn’t get all of the details. He’s not…?” Organa trails off, nodding in Kenobi’s direction since he’s become unresponsive once more. Jango glances to his unfortunate charge quickly. His lips move in silent speech to himself, staring off at some undisclosed location on the wall across from them with an impressive amount of focus.

“He’ll be fine. I think.” 

“And you’re?” Organa asks, still smiling but looking at Kenobi with genuine concern. Jango has to make a split-second decision whether or not to trust the man, and he’s vaguely irritated that his first instinct is the former. He must be one hell of a politician. Still, Organa’s actions thus far give him no reason not to trust the man. There’s something to him that’s regretfully genuine. Jango sighs.

“Helping him home.”

“I see.” Organa responds with a nod, finally looking back to Jango. He certainly doesn’t look compelled to trust him. Jango sighs, trying to figure out how to get out of this conversation without causing more problems for himself down the line. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” The Senator prompts before Jango can think of something to. say.

“Jango Fett.” He introduces himself as quickly as possible, then turns back to figuring out a solution to all of this. He’s speaking before he can think better of it, “I know his, uh, his family.” Is what he apparently settles on, unwilling to go through the verbal gymnastics of figuring out how to explain Kenobi’s relationship to the Skywalkers.

“I mean no offense, but I was under the impression that most people of your profession don’t do things like this.” Organa says with thinly veiled disbelief.

“Right.” Jango responds flatly, refusing to take the bait.

“That’s all you have to say?” Jango pauses, trying to find a decent response to that. How is _he_ the suspicious one in this situation? He’s just dragging – ah, yeah, never mind. He can see it. 

“Yep.” Is all he can bring himself to respond with. Bail Organa is a seasoned politician who is about to go play on the Galactic stage, if he’s annoyed by Jango’s response, he certainly does a bang-up job of hiding it.

“I assure you, I’m more than capable of getting him help if you have a job to do.” He pauses a moment before once again glancing around them nervously to check for others, “Does, does somebody want him dead?”

“Yep.” Jango repeats. There’s no use in hiding it, at this point. Either Organa is playing dumb or he genuinely doesn’t know, and in that case he’ll know eventually. Jango assumes he wouldn’t want something bad to happen to a lowly paralegal who has done very little to call much attention to himself. Organa takes a deep breath, smoothing the front of his fancy get up.

“I understand,” Organa says with a nod, “Then I guess I’ll just have to help. I don’t know what’s happening, and no offense, but I think you need it.” He decides unanimously, and Jango swears his mind goes completely blank. No one offers help without ulterior motives. No one is that good, especially not people of Organa’s station. “Here, this way, there will be less people,” Jango cuts him off without thinking.

“Now, wait, people will notice–”

“If I disappear for a few moments? The Chancellor is here, people will be too distracted with that to care. Even if they do care, Breha will stall.” Jango blinks stupidly. There is no good reason for Organa to care at all about Kenobi, someone who’s not only remarkably lower on the food chain than him but also when they’ve only spoken a handful of times. This is suspicious, Jango knows it’s suspicious, but everything about Organa feels sincere. He doesn’t follow any of the normal tells that even the best of liars will let slip. 

“Okay.” Jango acquiesces, more disappointed in himself than anything. He’s in little position to deny help in any form, much less someone who probably has more say in him receiving pay at the end of the day than anyone else around here.

Organa manages to maintain an air of calm as he visibly scans the room for anyone who might be able to relay what’s occurring. He glances back to Kenobi, looking adequately concerned, before heading off in the direction that he’d previously pointed out. Jango follows aimlessly through the halls as Bail sees fit, supporting most of Kenobi’s weight by hauling the other’s arm over his shoulder.

“I didn’t know Obi-Wan had family.” Organa says suddenly, clearly baiting conversation from awkward silence. Jango just hums in recognition, not in the mood to be indulging in unrelated conversation. “Not one for words, are you?” Organa notes, no malice behind the observation.

“Not really. I’d just like to do my job well enough to get paid.” 

“Right, that makes sense. Has he just – is he conscious?” Jango shifts Kenobi’s weight, like that will help him gauge where he’s at. At least his feet are still moving of their own accord, though clumsily at best.

“Barely.” He reports back, and Organa nods patiently, turning his head back at odd intervals to check that they’re still following alright. Jango will be the first to admit that it’s much easier to traverse the building with an expert for a guide.

“At first I thought maybe it was anxiety. But this looks a like it may be more intense than that,” It might make sense for an outsider to assume if they don’t know the alternative. “Are you sure you he’ll be okay?”

“No.” Jango answers flatly, pausing a moment as he notices Kenobi start to come to again with perfect timing. “How’s it going?” 

“Ah, you know,” Kenobi says, followed immediately by a harsh cough, keeling over and away from Jango as he does so. “Apologies,” He utters, because of course he’s aware enough of social normalcies to say that. “Oh, hello Senator. How are you?”

“Better than you, I fear,”

“Yes, I’m afraid that does seem to be the case.” He glances to Jango with a tired stare, looking absolutely ragged. His mouth opens and closes a few times, like he’s searching for words. “I think, I think I’m hearing things again.” He must finally settle on.

“Oh,” Is all Organa can manage, looking for the first time tonight as though he might be vaguely afraid. “Do we uh, do we know why?”

“Part of the someone wants him dead thing.” Jango answers flatly, trying to remember where they are in correlation to the schematics of the palace that he was given. He would love to be able to find his own way out should something go wrong, namely Organa revealing himself to be anything but altruistic.

“I’m not sure how that relates,” Organa says with a sigh.

“Yeah, join the club.” Jango mutters under his breath, immediately moving to catch Obi-Wan when he loses balance.

“Sorry,” He slurs. The time between episodes is getting shorter and shorter. 

“Come on, let’s keep moving.” Organa says with a sharp, questioning stare in Jango’s direction. They are certainly displaying a lot of blind trust in each other considering neither of them really know what’s happening. Maybe both of them are just idiots. 

“What’s he saying?” Organa asks from ahead of him after a few moments, taking another turn and descending a small flight of steps. Jango debates giving up any semblance of privacy, divulging that someone is riling through Kenobi’s thoughts and trying to make him have a full on melt down. Given his reaction to Palpatine knowing about the Sith, Jango doesn’t think that his sharing would be appreciated. It’s for the best. 

“Not sure. I’ve stopped trying to understand.” He says bluntly, finally answering the question. At this point, he’s started spacing out Kenobi’s ramblings in favor of trying to think through plans and potential solutions to this predicament. “Hey, I’ve got a question for you.” He says suddenly. Bail throws a curious look over his shoulder.

“Okay,” He prompts when Jango doesn’t continue of his own accord.

“If my contract was just to stop a potential act of terror, and getting Kenobi out of here does that, will I still get paid?” Organa stops in his tracks.

“That’s seriously what you’re thinking about right now?” He asks. Jango shrugs.

“A man’s gotta live.” Organa sighs before answering.

“Yes, I’ll make sure of it. I’m clearly not aware of all of the stipulations in your contract, but I’d assume that that still technically fulfills your end of the bargain. Here, this way.” He says, gesturing towards another hall and letting Kenobi and Jango go first. Looking at Kenobi, Jango bites back a sigh. He wasn’t joking when he said that the man looks like shit. It seems with every passing second, he somehow manages to grow even paler, a sheen of sickly sweat gathering on his skin. Even if Jango can get him back home in one piece, Shmi is going to freak out. 

“I can…make assumptions, but I must admit that there isn’t anything particularly hopeful about the assumptions that I’m making.” Organa begins to speak again.

“Yeah, it’s not looking too great for him.” Jango offers, which he realizes a second too late might be a bit insensitive.

“Does he need medical help? Will that do anything?”

“Distance should help.” He repeats what he and Kenobi had mentioned earlier, hoping that it’s enough to end conversation.

“So, it’s something here?” Jango takes a deep breath, channeling what last scraps of patience he has for strangers tonight.

“Maybe.” There’s no use beating around the bush at this point.

“Fett, my _wife_ is still there! There are innocent people with whoever it is that wants to kill people. I respect wanting to get Kenobi safe when he’s…going through this, but it’s also your job to protect those people, too.” Organa bites out.

“Considering the way this job was framed, I don’t think whoever’s doing this would be willing to put themselves in the spotlight. Honestly, I think it was for the sole purpose of killing Kenobi.”

“Kenobi is a paralegal.” Organa rebuts.

“And a former Jedi.” Jango points out, once again refusing to ask himself why he’s doing this in the first place. He silently curses the Skywalkers.

“I wasn’t sure if that was true. He certainly didn’t talk about it.” It’s unclear how much Obi-Wan would have talked about it with a stranger. He and Bail had only spoken twice at most and given Kenobi’s caution in telling even Anakin anything from his time in the Order – a trait that frustrates the kid to no end – Jango can’t imagine him telling a near stranger. “That means the rumors are true?”

“What rumors?” Jango asks, tightening his grip on Kenobi’s arm ever so slightly.

“About the Naboo Crisis? There are some people who think that the same name is just a coincidence. I read the paperwork that came out of it, everyone in Republic politics did.” Jango sighs.

“It was him.” There’s no use lying, at this point.

“Well, that explains why the Chancellor was so intent on speaking with him. He left mid-conversation to talk to him.” At surface value it makes sense, but Jango is already trusting one politician too much for his liking and adding Palpatine to his list of presumed unrelated actors is not something he’s willing to do just yet.

“Is Palpatine in with the Trade Federation?” Jango asks suddenly. Organa tilts his head in confusion, clearly not tracking where the question came from. “Right. You probably can’t answer that.” 

“If I’m completely honest, I think that most people in the Senate are in with the Trade Federation. Where do you think most of their funding comes from?” Organa asks, sounding vaguely perturbed. Interesting and unexpected coming from someone going into the Senate. Palpatine had toasted to Organa’s success in committee, and it uselessly occurs to Jango that he doesn’t even know which committee that is. It seems, with his thinly veiled distaste for bribery, that he isn’t about to have much luck with it. That brings Jango to another question. If Bail is so intent on making small talk, he might as well indulge himself.

“And your predecessor, Antilles?” He asks. Antilles owes him for a small-time information run, but beside that Jango has no recollection of the man’s informal affiliations, much less his legitimate allegiances. 

“Like I said, it follows the money. And the Trade Federation has a lot of it.” So, that’s a yes, then. “Though I’m not sure Palpatine agreed with anything Antilles said, towards the end.” Bail mutters, typing something into a keypad by a door at the beginning of a long hall.

“So that was antagonistic, then.” Jango says in regard to the fantastic display the miniature toast was. Bail doesn’t dignify a response, apparently having already said too much. Getting on the wrong side of higher-level and veteran members of the Senate – especially someone like the Chancellor, of all people – is not a wise move, especially not for a newcomer. So, it was less a toast and more a passive aggressive warning against climbing the ladder like Antilles did. Luckily for Organa, Jango doesn’t frequently repeat things that he’s heard unless there’s a significant sum of money or a contract involved. 

“Sorry, trying to turn off the cameras. There aren’t many inside around here since it’s technically private, but once we head outside to grab a speeder, there might be some suspicion.” That’s actually much more forethought than Jango was expecting him to show. At least now if he does, in fact, betray them, Jango can get rid of him and move on with little questions asked and no one able to prove anything. Though, that might count as a casualty and render his contract void. He should have never taken this job. 

Organa’s words past the initial thought process register a tad late.

“Speeder?”

“Well, I don’t think he’s up to walking too far, right now. I figured this would be less suspicious.” Jango hums in recognition of the words. It’s a fair point. “I would really like to know what you know, now.” He says, the door sliding open. Jango sighs. He’s going to have to give some sort of information in order for this tentative alliance to work. 

“Kenobi was a Jedi.” He reasserts, trying to buy himself any semblance of time before he has to talk around the Sith or Anakin or anything that could potentially put the Skywalkers in danger. Not that he even knows the full contents of that list, to begin with.

“You mentioned that.” Organa points out, tone patient but clearly eager for Jango to get to the point. To the Senator’s credit, if Jango hadn’t already seen Kenobi break down multiple times before this, he would probably be more concerned, too. As is, he’s concerned about how Anakin and Shmi are going to react if he’s still barely conscious and speaking nonsense when he gets Kenobi back.

“Something with the Force.” Jango says flatly, unsure of how else he could possibly describe what it is that’s happening.

“Making him…hear things?” Organa asks, taking another sharp turn.

Jango is not expecting the sharp blast of wind. The temperature must have dropped by several degrees tonight, even with the protection of a mostly enclosed – garage? The specific purpose of the room doesn’t matter – and through his armor it is absolutely bitter. He can’t tell if Kenobi’s shivering intensifies because of the cold or whatever’s happening in his head.

“As far as I can tell. Or as far as he told me.” Jango responds belatedly.

“Right.”

“Look, I can only go off of what he told me earlier.” 

“Right.” Organa repeats, eyeing a speeder that he must deem fine enough for their purposes. “Where are we taking him?” 

“Back to his place. Opposite end of Aldera.” Jango tries to explain with as few words as possible, hoping that it gives enough details that it should satisfy the man.

“Got it.” Organa says, hopping into the speeder in question and starting it without looking back at Jango and Kenobi.

“Woah, woah. No. You’re not coming.” Organa can’t leave here, his wife might be able to stall for him for some amount of time, but if anyone gets curious and goes looking it could spell trouble. Jango might not be too sure, but he can guess that getting an Organa tied into whatever conspiracy is happening here might make his contract void. Organa himself can’t make good on insuring Jango is paid if he’s dead or otherwise.

“Well, I’m not letting a stranger take my favorite speeder.” Bail cracks with a slight smile. Jango can see why he and Kenobi hit it off well enough in the course of two conversations for Organa to desert his own party. They both make bad jokes at inappropriate times. 

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.” Organa does look up when Jango says that, stare too intense to be coming from a supposed milquetoast politician who was nominated to blindly follow the Chancellor’s rulings.

“Do _you_?” He asks, the intensity in his stare only increasing. “Look, Fett. I’ve only spoken to Obi-Wan a few times, but I will tell you this: he is a good man. I will do what is in my power to help him and anyone else who may need it. I promise you that.” Jango immediately knows, without a doubt, that Organa is sincere. There’s an unspoken threat in the words, daring Jango to try and stop him. He has to respect the conviction, at least.

“Bold claim.” He says, with the same sort of cynical approach he took when hearing a nine-year-old say he was going to free the whole Galaxy. He shrugs Kenobi off of his shoulder and trying to help him into the speeder. His head lulls to the side with the weight of gravity, unable to control his own weight. 

“I mean it.” Organa emphasizes, clearly interpreting the patronizing tone for what it was. For a second, Jango thinks that Kenobi is going to snap back into it. His eyes flutter open and he mutters a quick apology.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, “I didn’t mean–I couldn’t stop, it didn’t, I–” Kenobi keeps rambling, his word speeding up along with his breathing. Jango looks to Organa expectantly, belatedly realizing that the other can’t see his facial expression at all. The nervous rambling turns to sobs being ripped from his throat in harsh breaths.

“Obi-Wan, are you alright?” Organa asks, turning around to better get a look at the man. 

“He isn’t responsive like this,” Jango clarifies. It’s depressing how quickly it was normalized for him. Even when Kenobi starts shaking violently, he doesn’t really notice, too focused on getting him away. 

“Has this been happening all night?”

“More or less.” Jango says curtly, trying to remain as casual as possible.

“And you say distance should help?”

“Potentially.” Because they still don’t know if it’s a proximity thing or a _Force bond_ thing. He hopes that it’s the former. That makes all of this so much easier and so much more understandable to the average person. 

“Right, potentially.” Organa repeats, scratching at his head and expression scrunching into something that closely resembles discomfort and fear, “This, this doesn’t look good.” He says as Kenobi’s shaking turns into straight tremors, the words being replaced with silent tears. 

“No.” Jango agrees with a quick shake of his head. 

He sees movement, a flash of heat signature showing up in the distance outside on his HUD. “Organa.” He prompts.

“Hm?” He responds, eyes not leaving Kenobi.

“Who would have access up here?”

“Right now? No one except security.” And security doesn’t stick to the shadows like that. That means that it might be someone responsible for this, or at the very least someone who might talk. Jango makes a quick decision in hopes of keeping collateral to a minimum.

“I need to go check something.” He says, already turning to run and figure out who it is that’s around. “Don’t. Move.” Jango orders, turning back around with an aggressive finger point in the Senator’s direction. Organa is too busy scrambling to keep Kenobi upright to ask any questions while Jango is still within earshot.

At the edge of the platform there’s a drop off thanks to Aldera’s mountain range, which means that the person must have somehow flown off. He immediately jetpacks up to the nearest landing, built into the land more than the structure of the palace itself, and checks for heat signatures. The subject in question talks before Jango can orient himself, making it drastically easier to pinpoint their form in the dark.

“Where’s your Jedi friend, Fett?” The too-familiar voice inquires. Jango’s heart sinks and his blood boils. It’s a voice that he’s heard all too recently, the Bando Gora hunt crossing his and Montross’s paths more times than he would like. It’s probably for both of their own safety that they haven’t run into each other since. Even in the dark, even had he not spoken, it would me unmistakable. A Mandalorian may as well be their armor, and though Montross lost the honor of that title long ago, he’s no exception. Adrenaline immediately forces its way into Jango’s bloodstream, the urge to fight aching in his chest and burning in his lungs. Montross should be dead ten times over already for everything that he’s done. “Didn’t think you ran with that crowd after Galidraan, or before, for that matter. Where’s your pride as a Mandalorian?”

“Why are you here?” Jango asks instead of answering, overly aware of a royal tucked away a few stories down.

Montross hasn’t drawn a weapon yet, but that doesn’t stop Jango from drawing both of the Westars by his side. 

“You’re going to shoot me in cold blood? That’s not very sporting, not your _style_.” Montross prattles off, ignoring the question at hand. “Not the Mandalorian way.” 

“You gave up the Mandalorian way,” Jango points out, less than thrilled to be in this situation to begin with. Why would Montross be here unless it was for a job? 

“For you? I’ll make an exception.” He says, but still doesn’t draw any weapon, “I’m just making sure you don’t make good on that contract.” Montross answers, shouting over the wind as it picks up, an impending continuation of the snowstorm from last night on the horizon.

“You aren’t killing him.” Jango asserts, in too deep now to change his opinion on that. If it makes Montross’s life more difficult, then it’s all the better.

“Oh,” The asshole laughs, Jango’s fingers itch closer to the trigger. He has no qualms going against the supposed Mandalorian way if it’ll shut Montross up. It’s always the same hoops to jump through with him. The pointless provocations, the long-winded prefaces to eventual and inevitable combat. It’s all typical. It still pisses Jango off, though. “I’m not here to kill him,” Montross completes after recovering from whatever it is that must be so funny. Jango’s thoughts halt. That doesn’t align with what he was thinking about at all. “Though it would certainly be easier,” Jango doesn’t need to see his eyes to know that the man is practically relishing in being so cryptic. It’s infrequent that Montross actually gets to know more than Jango. It must be something of a novelty to him.

“What?” Jango asks, despite himself. He tries so hard not to engage with Montross like this, whatever control he has over his own rage melts away with only a few words exchanged and engaging in bad banter and conversation makes it happen so much faster. “You’re full of it, Montross.” There’s no way that’s true. Jango cannot conceive of a situation where that makes sense.

“Oh, come on, Jango,” The name is spoken like an insult, “Jealous my special project is better than yours?” He taunts, and Jango forces himself to bite his tongue and bide his time – Montross is clearly goading him on, some other stupid attempt at getting Jango to talk. Still, the frustration mounts more quickly with every word spoken. “It certainly is more interesting than what you’ve been up to lately. Being stuck in one place must’ve–”

Jango fires. He fires until he knows he’ll have to let his blasters cool down, well aware that it won’t be enough to wear down his rival unless he starts being more strategic, but he can’t bring himself to care. Jango’s had enough confusion and intrigue to last a lifetime, he doesn’t need it coming from Montross, of all people. Montross evades most of the bolts and lets his armor absorb the stray hits. It’s an insult that he hasn’t bothered firing back, yet.

“Feel better?” Montross antagonizes, “I really would have thought you’d have learned a thing or two about patience by now. What was it, six years on that spice freighter?” Jango’s jaw clenches, his whole body seizing up with tension. He should’ve killed Montross years ago for what he did to Jaster – it would have been fair, it wouldn’t have been without reason – but he’d tried to make his father proud, done what he would have wanted, and now he has to deal with the traitor.

There’s no way that Montross is here to do anything but make sure Kenobi winds up dead. Unless there’s a completely other party involved which – Jango can’t think about this right now, he has too much circulating in his head as is. He needs to get Kenobi out of here and then he can forget whatever it is that’s being tangled up here.

“Really thought you would have learned how to finish a hunt by now.” Jango counters, earning another boisterous laugh. Montross is playing with him, stalling him for something, maybe. Jango is suddenly very glad that Organa decided he was going to tag along whether or not he was invited. At least now Jango knows that the Senator can just fly away as he sees fit should someone else be tag teaming. Jango doesn’t believe Montross for a second when he says that he doesn’t intend to kill Kenobi. He won’t let him get any closer than he is.

“It’s good to see you in better spirits, Jango! Last time I saw you, you weren’t in much of a talking mood.” Last time he saw Montross was on Malastare and it’s possible he didn’t talk too much, but that isn’t anything outside of the ordinary. Unless he’s referring to the poor slicing job on the _Legacy_ which –

“You didn’t finish the Bando Gora, either, then.” Jango says, the reality suddenly occurring to him. Aside from being petty, Montross was looking for coordinates. Likely trying to find direction for the Bando Gora. Had Jango been on schedule, he would’ve gotten those numbers, too. Montross would have gloated by now, too. It’s out of character that he’s said nothing.

“Either?” Montross whistles, the vocoder warping the sound into something high pitched and scratchy, “Wow, didn’t think you the humble type.” Jango recognizes the way his right arm preps movement all too well, but he isn’t quick enough to entirely avoid an early bolt that catches the left side of his jetpack. That’ll be a problem, if he can’t fix it quickly. He moves as quickly as he can without the assistance, dodging what fire he can. Montross is toying with him, there’s something that he wants and it’s keeping him from fighting all out.

“If you really think I completed it then your information is bad.”

“My information came from Tyranus himself.” Montross fires again. Jango can’t deal with that right now, tries to focus instead on matching Montross shot for shot. He’s forced to drop into a roll to avoid, landing harshly on his shoulder and firing back as soon as he’s able. He’s about to run into melee range when Montross pauses, his weapon dropping again. Jango swears that he’s been transported to a parallel dimension. 

“Let’s not waste any more time. Where’s the kid, Jango?” So, it is about Anakin. Jango’s head is spinning. Anakin is in danger and Kenobi could be dying and if either of those things progresses, Shmi is not going to respond well. 

“What kid?” Jango asks, overly aware of how obvious the bluff is.

“The one that you helped off Tatooine. The one your friend there apparently exiled himself for. Ringing a bell?” Right. Kenobi. Kenobi who Jango told Organa not to leave with just yet. Kenobi who needs to get out of here as quickly as possible or he might actually lose his mind. Jango steels himself, accepting that he is about to do something exceptionally stupid. He’s about to lie to the one person remaining who knows all of his tells and just how terrible of a liar he is. 

“He’s not here. Something about Kenobi being suspicious.” There are more words unspoken than not in the two sentences, but it’s not entirely wrong. He just hopes Montross assumes that it stems from Jango’s disinterest in conversation. “I don’t know more than that.” Jango holds his breath, self-hatred nearly suffocating him. He should be fighting. He should be refusing to backdown until he’s finally gotten rid of Montross. Running is Montross’s move, not his, but as much as he would love to fight all out, neither of them vying for information, he is balancing too much with too little certainty to waste that kind of time. His grudge can wait. It will have to. Vengeance for Jaster makes no difference if he gets a kid hurt in the process.

“You’re damn lucky you haven’t killed Kenobi yet,” Montross swerves, “That would have gotten you in trouble with Tyranus for sure.” He laughs as he says it, like he’s just made some grand joke, but Jango’s too busy trying to process all of the other things that have happened tonight to begin chewing on the implications of that. “Well, I should head out sooner than later. But Jango? You should always check for charges. Like you said: I don’t follow the Mandalorian way.” Montross gives him a mock salute, but Jango is too busy trying to get his jetpack back in working order to see him head off. 

_Kriff_. How could he be so stupid? 

His thoughts start working in overdrive, fiddling with wiring before giving up just as quickly. This is not good at all; he’s going to have to try to get out of here with only the right side of his pack operational. It’s that or nothing, and if there really are charges set here then he doesn’t have time to consider the possible alternatives. Jango jumps before he can think better of it, at least three charges going up shortly thereafter and not even his helmet can protect his ears from the close blast. It’s disorienting, and he doesn’t see where he’s even headed towards before it’s too late.

Something cracks at his side as he lands harshly. All he can do is lay there for a second, coughing before he can catch his breath and take silent stock of what injuries he might have. The great news is that the crunching sound must have been unrelated, because aside from some aches he knows will bruise and his ringing ears, he’s more or less fine. That doesn’t account for the way his head spins with questions. What just happened? Jango stands, first checking his Westars to make sure they still seem to be in working order before searching for what must have broken. Digging around in the pouches, his gloved fingers catch small pieces of whatever it was, only managing to fish out three or four bigger chunks that weren’t crushed entirely. Jango doesn’t consider himself superstitious, but holding the remnants of Anakin’s japor carving in his hand certainly feels like an omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you want to fight but there’s too much information you gotta catch up on. rip jango and the most boring firefight. 
> 
> Hello again! I’m so excited that you’re here! I hope you all are staying healthy and safe this holiday season. 
> 
> As always, feel free to come say hi on Tumblr [ that you can find here ](https://dexterjettsters.tumblr.com)
> 
> See you next week (and this time, without a doubt).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I know this is much later than I intended it to be.  
> This is technically my first post of the New Year, and I'm feeling nostalgic so bear with me while I ramble for a moment in a poor attempt to explain my erratic update schedule:
> 
> Since Sigil's conception in early August:  
> • I have written in four different locations (places where I have lived or intend to live for two months+)  
> • I lost my job and promptly afterwards miraculously got a new job  
> • I finished my fall semester of university (and have now started my final semester!)  
> • I caught covid. I am still dealing with some of the complications.  
> • A few deaths have been peppered in
> 
> I just want to say that I am so grateful for everyone who reads. I am very aware that this is a hyper niche subject, and I'm honored that there are people interested with me! I get AO3 emails notifications, and there are days when – I know it sounds cheesy – but they literally make my day. So seriously, thank you!  
> Alright, that's it from me.  
> Wait, also: before you read, I think it's only fair I let you know that today my computer hard crashed (twice!) and I lost half of this document permanently today at about 5pm. Here we are, though!

The light filtering through a nearby window fades in and out as clouds must pass overhead. This results in the room oscillating between half-darkness and cold, silvery light that nearly blinds Obi-Wan. It pries behind his still closed eyelids and aggravates an already blooming migraine with little regard for his overwhelming desire to remain asleep. Unfortunately for the pulsing ache centralized on the left side of his skull, there is very little that could convince him to fully wake in his current state – though the bright morning sun is making a most valiant effort. He summons what resolve he has and endeavors to turn over on whatever surface he must have substituted for his bed last night. He is immediately overwhelmed by a sudden wave of nausea and the overwhelming awareness of a bone-deep ache radiating throughout his entire body. It's as if his nerves have been set alight, his brain crammed in a trash compactor, stomach tied in knots.

All Obi-Wan can think to do is sigh, blindly reaching for a blanket or something that can at least somewhat block the light from his eyes. When his hands, feeling vaguely detached from his body but radiating a pin-prick pain, find nothing, he resigns himself to draping his own forearm over his face. It blocks out the worst of it, the burning behind his retinas decreasing to general discomfort.

“I told you he’d wake up,” A young voice says from nearby, carefully triumphant. Obi-Wan wrenches his eyes closed even more tightly from behind the new barrier, as if it will turn down the volume of the room and ease the steadily building pain.  
“Hush give him a moment,” Someone else advises. Obi-Wan’s thoughts are hazy, weighed down with sleep and exhaustion. His memories are disjointed, and it’s difficult to place where he is without opening his eyes. There are no warnings or signs of danger ringing out in the Force, so he assumes a few more moments of sleep won’t kill him. Despite how foggy his awareness in the Force feels – there’s very little that he can sense at the moment, he can only barely recognize that there are two other people here with him – he decides to take the lack of inherent danger to mean safety, too tired to think anything else of it.

The longer he lies awake, however, the more aware of the full body ache and discomfort making its home in his bones. That, combined with what he can only assume is a stress migraine currently wreaking havoc on him, mean that he may be too optimistic in assuming he’ll be able to get back to sleep. With that new revelation in mind, he reluctantly accepts that he needs to fully wake up and process where he is and how he got here. Even so, it takes a few more seconds to become lucid enough to respond.

“G’morning,” He finally gathers the energy to at least say something, though the words are more slurred together than spoken. It’s only been a few minutes, and with the way his mouth feels like it’s been filled with cotton and his head dunked underwater, he’s sure that it will take a moment more to feel present in his body again. There’s no need to panic. _There’s no need to panic_. Unfortunately, just thinking that doesn’t make his body respond appropriately, and he fears there’s very little he can do about the fear already situating itself high in his chest. 

“See?” The same young voice pipes up, earning a long-suffering sigh from the other. He _knows_ that he recognizes the voices. He’s just weary and disoriented and in _pain_ and has one foot still in unconsciousness. Obi-Wan forces a deep breath, and at that moment the weight on what he’s fallen asleep on dips as someone joins him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Obi-Wan? How are you feeling?” Shmi asks, tentative and soft. That’s right, Shmi and Anakin. He’s home. The fear that was readying itself in case his brain didn’t clear turns to panic. He doesn’t remember how he got here. He remembers, well, he remembers – he’s not sure _what_ he remembers, all of the images and sounds of the previous night being rearranged as he tries desperately to organize them into a coherent timeline. Obi-Wan chokes down a pathetic groan as his migraine sharpens.

It’s like he untangles a trouble spot, and reality comes crashing down on him hard and fast. His breath feels too heavy and too shallow in his chest, like he’s simultaneously getting all too much and all too little oxygen. Memories stack on top of each other at breakneck speed, filling in the pieces of the jigsaw of information he woke up with. He sputters a string of coughs that burns his lungs and incites the already existing body pain. Conversations with Fett early in the night, the Chancellor seeking him out, pointed comments about his career, about Qui-Gon, about hypothetical Sith lords that were supposedly unconfirmed and certainly meant to remain secret. Somewhere, still hazy and warped by so many voices and insufferable pain, is Fett talking to him in curt monosyllabic phrases at odd intervals of hallways, Bail Organa’s concerned stare and hushed commentary. And through it all, the overwhelming and stifling knowledge that someone was in his head. Someone was in his head. Someone was ravaging his brain and twisting the words in others mouths, searching for something, for someone, for _Anakin_. 

Obi-Wan feels the way his shields are damaged, metaphorically burrowed through and torn down in a way that makes his skin crawl and a chill wash over him of its own accord. He follows where the damage leads, only slightly aware that he’s muttering desperate pleas for him to have been coherent enough to dedicate all of his energy to protecting Shmi and Anakin. He doesn’t know what anyone could want with the Skywalkers, but anyone that determined to find them with these means can have no good intentions. Thankfully, the effort exerted in protecting any and everything regarding either Skywalker paid off – there’s no evidence of anyone managing their way through his defenses. The consequence, of course, is that whoever was around here knows all of his secrets now ( _not good, not good, not good_. The unbridled panic keeps chanting at him repeatedly) but Anakin and Shmi are okay. They’re alright. He breathes deeply through his nose and reacquaints himself to his surroundings, desperately trying to find his calm again.

“Obi-Wan?” Shmi questions once more, but Obi-Wan is still preoccupied with smoothing over the apparent damages to the best of his ability.

“I think he’s meditating,” Anakin informs her graciously, immediately brushing against Obi-Wan’s tattered shields with a staggering amount of concern. Obi-Wan flinches at the sensation, any type of outside intrusion unwelcome at this point. He needs to stay focused in order to stay calm. When he has a moment to reorganize the events of last night and process them in full, it will just have to be later. _Later, later, later_. He is only one man – he can only deal with one thing at a time. Anakin is more aggressive in his prodding this time around, clearly looking for some sign of life – or at least cognizance – from Obi-Wan.

“I’m here, just,” He hesitates, trying to think of a way that he can explain the process of walking step by painful step through his own mental fortitudes with as little effort as possible while minimizing the likelihood for further questioning. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he recalls a silly and not-quite correct metaphor Anakin used what feels like ages ago. Anakin had said it to describe reordering his emotions in a more spatial sense, but it’ll do. “I’m just rearranging the furniture,” He concludes with a resigned sigh. It feels wrong to equate it to that, but Shmi doesn’t inquire about it any further and Anakin doesn’t revisit his attempts of intrusion.

“Are you alright?” Shmi asks instead, voice stable and unwavering. 

“I’m afraid I’ve been better,” He says, though his throat is still scratchy, and his skin feels itchy and as if it’s been pulled too tightly against his bone structure. Obi-Wan finally opens his eyes, recoiling violently against the light as he does. Between fatigue and the unrelenting migraine pulsing behind his eyes, the shapes of the room appear more shadowlike than anything, blurring together when he switches focus and lingering in places where he knows nothing is. It takes a moment for Shmi’s face to come into focus when he looks up, but when it does, she looks too concerned.

“I can only imagine. Here,” She says, leaning forward and helping him sit up. He doesn’t remember falling asleep on the couch. “Does this help?” she asks. It doesn’t, his head is swimming and the pain intensifies with the shift in balance, but it will ensure that he doesn’t fall asleep again and that’s probably optimal.

“Yes, thank you.” He lies through his teeth and spares a glance towards Anakin. The boy is perched rather precariously on the (by no means large) windowsill, seated between two of the potted plants there. He looks exhausted, not nearly exuberant or even fidgety enough to be fully present as his usual self, which means that he must be halfway asleep. Halfway asleep, but safe.

The electric kettle flips off audibly from the kitchen, and the gradually ebbing panic flickers back into the forefront of Obi-Wan’s mind. His head whips around to catch the source of the noise, sickness instigated by the speed of the motion mitigated by the confusion that immediately overtakes him. Standing there, staring back at Obi-Wan with an annoyingly nonplussed expression, is none other than Jango Fett. The fact that Obi-Wan hadn’t realized he was here before is concerning, to say the least. The man’s shirked his armor at some point, sleeves rolled to his elbows to reveal rather gruesome bruising and stiff movements to match, meaning that it’s new since last night. Maybe Obi-Wan remembers less than he thought.

“You’re still here.” He observes flatly. It’s not illogical to assume that the bounty hunter would already been on to his next job by now, especially after all of the things Obi-Wan said last night. He would love nothing more than to take most of those words back, a matter of both discretion and dignity.

“I gave you my word.” That much is true but unrelated. Still, it’s much more honorable than he would have assumed the other to be. In the moment, he knows that he had more or less trusted Jango’s word. It’s still disorienting to realize that he really meant it. Part of Obi-Wan feels relieved. The other part is aware just how close to death he would have had to be for Fett to have made the conscious decision to stay. 

“I’m not dead,” He says, clearing his throat afterwards like it will dislodge his own apprehension. Jango shrugs casually, continuing his movement. Obi-Wan doesn’t have the energy to track what he’s doing. 

“Yet.” Fett deadpans.

“Well, thank you for the vote of confidence,” Before any further comment can be made, Obi-Wan turns back to face Anakin with the expression they bilaterally reserve for strangers in public who have said or done something particularly egregious. It accomplishes the desired effect, the lifelessness on the boy’s face dissipating in exchange for smothered laughter. His face is still swollen from his fight the other day, eye still bruised and cuts littering his face. Still, the smile now present eases the weight sitting on Obi-Wan’s chest, if only a little.

“It’s not funny,” Shmi contests, wrapping her arms across her body protectively and dragging Obi-Wan’s attention towards her via intense stare alone. There’s so much raw worry in her eyes that Obi-Wan, for a moment, is convinced that something must be visibly wrong with him. If he can fool Anakin into believing that his inner turmoil has diminished, then it should be vastly easier to do the same for Shmi. 

“I am sorry,” Obi-Wan says with an equal degree of seriousness.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Obi-Wan. I’m just worried. We’re worried.” She corrects, “And confused and,” Shmi sighs with too much grief behind it for one person alone, “Jango dragged you back half-dead. It’s a miracle your alive! I’ve seen people in better shape than you were not make it through to morning.” The sentiment washes over Obi-Wan coldly. He had filed away the gaps in his memory to deal with later, the blank spots filled with nonsensical visions or pain so intense that he lost the ability to perceive anything else. It’s not something that he would like to unpack, at the moment. It had never occurred to him that there was a legitimate physical repercussion, though with the way his body aches, it makes sense.

“Oh, dear.” Is all he can think to say, letting Shmi’s words settle in him.

“Anakin’s refused to sleep because he’s been convinced of _something_ in the Force, but _I’m_ not Force sensitive, and _I’m_ not familiar with anything that isn’t made of wiring and spare parts, and _I’m_ –” She must abandon the train of thought, brushing wisps of hair that have fallen loose from her bun back behind her ear. “I’m sorry, I–I’m worried, is all,” Obi-Wan fights the urge to flinch when Shmi takes his hand in hers, “I don’t know what we would do without you.” He nods slowly, following her words. Anakin was convinced of something?

“Anakin?” He questions, and Anakin tilts his head and hums in recognition. He refused to sleep, Shmi said. It’s difficult to tell under a blackeye, but Obi-Wan is sure that he can see the exhaustion weighing on the boy. “What did you sense?”

“It’s stupid, I think I was wrong.” Anakin mumbles, kicking one of his feet absently from his perch. Shmi’s response, coupled with Obi-Wan’s fears that he hopes Jango kept to himself regarding the Sith, makes it difficult to be patient with him at the moment.

“Regardless, you could be right. It’s important that you tell me,” He attempts to reason. As Anakin mulls it over, Fett walks over to hold a chipped mug out to Obi-Wan.

“It’ll help with the headache.” He says, like it’s the most natural conclusion to come to. Obi-Wan doesn’t think that he’s mentioned the way his head is pounding out loud, but he accepts the cup of what looks like Shmi’s caf stash gratefully. Caffeine might actually help take the edge off.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan responds out of habit. Jango offers no more commentary, instead taking to staring out the window. There’s a reason Obi-Wan prefers tea over caf – especially Shmi’s, which is strong enough to chew, more often than not – and it’s because the bitterness of tea doesn’t hit him quite as hard. Still, he’ll do about anything to think clearly again, so he chokes down a few sips before looking expectantly at Anakin again.

“It didn’t feel like you were alone,” He mumbles, fiddling nervously with his sleeve and only meeting Obi-Wan’s stare from the corner of his eye and at sporadic intervals. 

“I see,” Obi-Wan says when Anakin doesn’t take it upon himself to continue onwards. It would be less concerning had Obi-Wan, moments prior, been able to sense Jango in the same small space as them. He’s aware, reluctantly, that Anakin might be more in tune with the Force than he is, at present. “It was me and Fett, and I assume–”

“Organa, yeah,” Jango confirms turning back to face the room with a sigh. 

“The Senator,” Obi-Wan completes anyways, earning a particularly unamused stare from him. Apparently, Fett doesn’t take well to titles being used ever, a particularly unhelpful conclusion to be drawing now. 

“Yeah, yeah but it wasn’t either of them. It was like someone was you but not,” Anakin elaborates, shifting his weight so that he almost falls off the sill – Fett braces one of the plants before he can knock it over. “Like someone was with you in your head?” He asks more than explains. Obi-Wan knew this already, but he also knows that he told Fett last night. If it hasn’t been relayed, then what _has_ been confirmed? Are the Skywalkers completely in the dark? He knows the sudden hopefulness that they don’t know much of what happened is kindled by weakness, namely by fear. They might already know about the Sith from Naboo and Obi-Wan’s own paranoia following Coruscant, but there’s a degree of uncertainty and danger wrapped up in recent events that he can’t bring himself to want to involve them in.

“Well, I suppose that much is a relief.” Obi-Wan says, deciding to choose his truths very carefully. He can’t argue with Anakin’s fine intuition, more so, he can’t damage the boy’s confidence in his own feelings. Had Anakin not doubted himself, maybe he would think better of it.

“Why?” Anakin asks, voicing what it seems Shmi was about to, based on her change in posture. Obi-Wan is suddenly very aware of everyone’s intense stares on him.

“It means I’m not actually losing it,” He says with a tired laugh, trying to maintain an unbothered air in attempt for it to bleed into the room. He understands Shmi’s concern, and if Anakin had truly felt another’s presence, can understand how jarring it must have been when he returned home, apparently, unconscious. It will be easier for him to pretend that things aren’t as bad as they seem or aren’t as bad as the chaos in his brain is making it.

“You said leaving would help.” Jango grumbles from where he stands, shifting one of the smaller succulents further into the sunlight as he does.  
“Yes, I did.” Obi-Wan nods, taking another sip of the caf in his hand. Unfortunately, he isn’t growing any more accustomed to the taste of it. 

“Okay, so what does it mean that he felt someone up in your head?” Obi-Wan opens his mouth to respond but finds that he can’t conjure an answer. He doesn’t know.

“This is new territory for me.” He answers reluctantly. Obi-Wan only knows what he felt, what he heard, and most of it is still a jumbled mess that he’s probably better off not remembering in detail. Maybe, an actual Jedi would have the answers – someone who was deemed fit and stable enough to become a Knight. Maybe, it wouldn’t have even happened to an actual Knight. How is Anakin supposed to learn from someone who can’t even protect their own mind?

“Can you give us a second?” Fett says suddenly, voice completely void of any emotion, including the usual apathy or annoyance. It occurs to Obi-Wan that this must be the approach Fett takes to normal bounties and information gathering. The thought does not bring him any comfort.

Shmi shoots Obi-Wan a quick look, and he realizes that she’s asking him for permission. It should be a comforting gesture, Shmi doesn’t want to leave Obi-Wan alone, but it doesn’t sit well with him at all. He doesn’t like when Shmi asks him if she can do anything, this is no exception. Still, he nods slightly and turns his attention back to Fett.

“Come on, Ani. You should at least get _some_ sleep,” She says, standing from her place next to Obi-Wan and gesturing for Anakin to follow. It’s generous of her to at least pretend to have something better to do, or to not be consumed by curiosity as Obi-Wan can only imagine he himself would be. Anakin must have the same desire of understanding and explanation as Obi-Wan, though, because he remains where he’s seated, shoulders slumping as he leans forward in disappointment.

“But Mom,” He whines, eyes darting between her and Obi-Wan in silent conversation that he isn’t privy to.

“Anakin.” Shmi warns sternly. There’s a nudge against Obi-Wan’s shields, mirroring Shmi’s polite request for confirmation. He’s unsure why they would feel the need to do such a thing. 

“It’s a conversation, I won’t fall unconscious again.” Obi-Wan assures – mostly to Anakin, but he doesn’t miss the way Shmi’s posture relaxes.

“That’s what you think,” Anakin says stubbornly, “but you didn’t have to deal with yourself earlier,” His stare is so intense, and Obi-Wan still so disoriented, that no response comes for a moment.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Obi-Wan settles on. He thinks it’s what Anakin wants to hear, acknowledging the events of last night without incriminating himself or sharing details he ought not to while avoiding the main point at hand.

“It wasn’t your fault,” The boy grits out, still kicking his feet aimlessly.

“Anakin, I’ll be right here. You can still sense me sitting here, yes?” Anakin sighs dramatically, but a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“I guess,” He draws out the syllables much longer than they need to be.

“Listen to your mother,” Obi-Wan concludes, giving Anakin a friendly shove. Shmi shoots him one last look – questioning and with the curiosity that Obi-Wan had expected to see earlier – and he nods again. This particular silent request of hers is clear enough, though it doesn’t need to be made in the first place. Whatever Jango says, Obi-Wan will obviously pass on to the Skywalkers. Well, that’s assuming it doesn’t directly endanger them.

“Panicking isn’t helping you.” Fett says, still looking down the hallway that the Skywalkers were gracious enough to disappear down.

“Thank you, I hadn’t realized,” Obi-Wan snarks before he can think better of it, earning a sharp glare from Fett, “I’m sorry. I don’t,” He stops, unsure of what he intends to finish the sentence with. He feels small and out of his depth and helpless – like his Master just died and he’s been handed the responsibility of caring for nine-year-old boy, left to his own devices and with no resources except for interpersonal connections in shifty places. He knows that it’s fear taking root inside of him, seeping its way into his bloodstream and making his fingers tremble. He notices too late that he’s begun nervously tapping on the side of the mug in his hands. He can’t bring himself to stop, much too focused on remembering how to breathe again.  
_  
There is no emotion, there is peace._

_There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._

_There is no passion, there is serenity._

_There is no chaos, there is harmony._

_There is no death, there is the Force._  
  
Obi-Wan breathes as deeply as his finicky lungs will allow him to, repeating the words to himself the way he would when he was a child woken up by his own visions. If they were in imminent danger, they would probably be dead by now. It’s odd and slightly depressing that that’s a comfort.

“What did you tell them?” He asks, stable enough now to ask at least that. 

“Not as much as they deserve to know.” Fett’s response manages to zero in on the guilt inside of him that refuses to ease at all. Obi-Wan doesn’t have time to sink into self-loathing before Fett speaks again. “Do you remember what you told me last night?” He asks, grabbing the old Shah Tezh book from its usual placement on the far end of the windowsill. To be fair, Obi-Wan didn’t think that Jango Fett would be back soon enough to thumb through it again. He’s about to protest, but Fett silences him with a lackadaisical wave of his hand. Obi-Wan swallows thickly, stare locked on the book. Fett doesn’t deem fit to open it, apparently. It’s a small relief, if another mystery to add to the increasing lot of them.

“I recall saying a few things I quite wish I hadn’t,” He responds with a cynical laugh that grates against his throat, sounding airy and dry. He resigns himself to finishing the caf as quickly as possible to remedy that, only partially holding out hope that it will resolve the pain in his head. Fett waits patiently for him to finish.

“Someone’s looking for Anakin?” He asks as Obi-Wan leans forward, an action that requires more effort than it has any right to and places the mug on the low and cluttered table there. 

“From what I can gather–” He’s immediately cut off by Fett.

“It’s a yes or no question, Kenobi.” Obi-Wan forces himself to take a calming breath. He would have gotten there, had the man _listened._

“Yes.” He rephrases curtly, if that’s the way Fett wants to be.

“Do you know who?”

“No.” Obi-Wan pointedly refrains from including any more details.

“Does the name Tyranus mean anything to you?” The question is spoken with more weight than the previous. Obi-Wan takes a moment to consider the questi. He searches his memory from all phases of his life but comes up dry.

“I’m afraid not.” He replies, still thinking over the name itself. Fett heaves a sigh, leaning and staring out the window blankly for a few seconds. He raps his knuckles on the cover of the book in his hands, and Obi-Wan has to bite the inside of his cheek to hold himself back from mentioning that it’s old and fragile and ought to be treated with more care than that. That’s unimportant. “Why?” He asks, refocusing himself. It’s remarkably hard to do when he feels like this.

“I think that might be who’s looking for Anakin, at least.” Obi-Wan nods dutifully, careful to keep hold of his calm. He commits the name to memory. 

“How do you figure?” He asks, though he knows better than to question the judgement of a bounty hunter with the reputation of Fett. If the man wants to find information, Obi-Wan is sure that he has his ways. 

“Ran into an old friend who tipped me off,” He says bitterly. Obi-Wan can assume that’s where his visible injuries came from, but he isn’t about to ask. He’s afraid that he might already be pushing his luck.

“I don’t believe I was present for that.” Is instead what he responds with.

“No,” Fett confirms, offering no more explanation than that, “I don’t have many leads on him, but I’m almost certain of it. You’ll have to figure out whoever it is that wants you dead, though. I’m here for Anakin and Shmi, not to do some,” He waves his hand vaguely, visibly searching for words, “Sith brain rot scavenger hunt,” Obi-Wan nods as he says it, despite the understated phrasing.

“I would never assume otherwise. Though, I’m afraid whoever wants me dead is _also_ intensely curious about Anakin’s whereabouts.” 

“Great.” Fett’s sarcasm is paired with a bitter chuff of half-laughter, “Here, I tried to get down potential leads while I was thinking about them,” He says suddenly, opening the book in his hands. For a moment, Obi-Wan is so distracted by the irony of Fett insisting he wouldn’t help him to offering ways forward that he can’t bring himself to be distressed about the invasion of privacy. The moment wears off quickly. 

“You wrote in my book?” He asks in disbelief.

“Not in, just alongside whatever scraps you’ve written on,” Before Obi-Wan can protest, Jango is handing him the scrap piece of flimsi. Despite knowing that Fett is, technically, helping him, he glares at the man before turning to the flimsi now in his possession. “Relax, it’s not like I can understand anything in here anyways. Effective code,” He awards, and Obi-Wan feels oddly accomplished that he thought so. “Makes me trust you less,” Obi-Wan waves off the comment, squinting at the sloppy handwriting.

“You don’t trust me anyways,” He muses. From the corner of his eye, he can see the movement of Jango shrugging half-heartedly. 

Whether it’s the handwriting or the way his head is swimming makes the letters warp on the page is beyond him. Either way, it takes him all too long to make out the first few words. He realizes that Fett hasn’t written down the events of last night, rather names of potential people involved. The name at the very top of the list is Novotny, though if Obi-Wan’s employer was Force sensitive, he’s certain he would have found out by now – especially if he was Force sensitive enough to incite the chaos ravaging Obi-Wan’s mind. At the bottom of the list is a name Obi-Wan is convinced he’s misreading.

“The Chancellor?” He asks in disbelief. It’s certainly one ambitious accusation.

“I said potential,” Jango counters. Obi-Wan feels confusion tug at his expression. 

“Technically, you could say that I’m part of the reason he rose to power in the first place,” He says. Palpatine is a politician, of course he’ll have ulterior motives, but they hadn’t discussed anything atypical the previous night. It felt genuine enough.

“Yeah, fine. Do what you want with it, but I would like to remind you that you’re the one who had a breakdown because he knew you killed a Sith,” Fett remarks off-handedly, like this whole situation is the most casual thing about his week. That did happen. He had remembered that, but then it slipped away again, somehow. The conversation was a minefield of triggers. 

“I…did,” Obi-Wan confirms slowly, wincing as the pain behind his eyes sharpens. It’s less a statement on the Chancellor’s potential involvement and more a short coming within the Order. He isn’t sure which he fears more. 

For what little that it’s worth, Fett was apparently quite careful in leaving Obi-Wan’s own notes untarnished by his own sloppy writing. The names are scribbled down perfectly between the spaces of his own handwriting, less faded and certainly less legible. Of course, it all feels foolish now. Keeping track of conversations between himself and Dooku was supposed to help him deduce his Grandmaster’s true motives – whatever that might be – but Obi-Wan can hardly trace why Fett chose to mark down who he did, especially when simply remaining awake is such a chore. It all feels like a lost a cause. He rereads the list in a near desperate attempt to refrain from rapidly spiraling. It offers no further insight from the first time.

“What do I do?” He asks quietly, before he can even realize he’s spoken the words aloud. It must sound pathetic. Under usual circumstances, with his wits about him and able to think clearly, he wouldn’t have even thought about asking the question, much less having it slip from his mouth without his full permission. Still, when Obi-Wan had left the Temple, he had been certain in the will of the Force. It had been impossible to deny, despite his own wariness and the overwhelming dread clinging to his shoulders at the time, a dread similar to the one that know clouds the Force entirely. The other similarity is his unfortunately reliance on one Jango Fett: a man who would very well kill him given the chance, but, for whatever reason, is willing to go out of his way for the Skywalkers. It’s an inexplicable quality that Obi-Wan has been transitively benefitting from this whole time, he isn’t foolish enough to believe otherwise.

“What?” Fett asks. He turns to look at Obi-Wan, having stood to pace what available floor there is while Obi-Wan himself was distracted contemplating names and wallowing in his own lack of direction and uncertainty. He squeezes his palm, at the base of his thumb, willing himself to think of a reasonable comment to replace the initial question with. There are too many factors for him to consider himself, especially as he is now. He’s too busy trying to remain calm and process the information he didn’t have a chance to the night before to formulate a next step himself, much less anything that resembles a full plan. So, regrettably, he swallows his pride and repeats himself.

“What should I do? Obi-Wan waits for a response as patiently as possible, unsure if Fett will even bother dignifying a response.

“Kenobi,” Is all he says instead with an exasperated shake of his head.

“My judgement is clouded–”

“Because you care about these people?” Fett asks before Obi-Wan can even finish, apparently requiring no other information to leap to the conclusion Obi-Wan was trying to come to. The question itself is judgmental and accusatory, surely a testament to Fett’s distaste for Obi-Wan’s upbringing rather than the situation at hand.

“Because I’m,” _Attached_. He can’t bring himself to finish. It’s probably for the best, sparing Fett the energy of what Obi-Wan can only assume would be a particularly malicious stare. Even with the sentiment left incomplete, it doesn’t ring any less true. After so many months with Shmi and Anakin as his only form of genuine social interaction, he’s afraid no amount of introspection could have prevented it. If only he wasn’t so selfish, if he had checked his behavior and emotions beforehand, he would have an objective opinion on where to go from here. Instead, he just sighs and closes his eyes against the sunlight leaking through the apartment’s blinds, allowing himself to recalibrate for a second.

When he reopens his eyes, he at least feels more present in his body and in control of his own nervous system. Fett stares at him expectantly, waiting for Obi-Wan to continue his previous statement before casting any more judgement, it seems.

“I am guessing,” Obi-Wan begins, instead, “I have been guessing since I stepped foot on Tatooine. I, I was guessing when we began negotiations with the Federation, and when we broke the blockade, and when I was replacing the hyperdrive, and–” He cuts off his own rambling, something about mentioning Qui-Gon and the duel feeling taboo even to his own stream of consciousness. He’s vaguely aware of how absurd he must seem like this, scratching at the cheap upholstering of the couch and talking with no real purpose in sight. He can’t bring himself to care too much, not after what Fett saw of him last night and before that their first meeting. So he continues, reaching blindly towards some concluding question that will grant him what insight or guidance Fett has to offer and is willing to give, “If you were me, what would you do?” Obi-Wan must seem exceptionally pathetic, because Fett appears overtly contemplative. 

“I would be off planet, by now.” He says after a moment, flat and unamused as ever, but lacking the derogatory undertones Obi-Wan was expecting. Still, the advice does him little good now and thus Obi-Wan can’t stop the sarcastic response already on his tongue.

“Very helpful,” 

“You asked.” Jango counters.

“Yes. Yes, that is right. Thank you,” He corrects, only to be met with silence and Fett turning back to stare out the window.

The Force, though still some degree of unreachable, becomes somewhat clear once more. Obi-Wan’s relief is shortly lived. There have only been one or two times where Jango’s presence has seemed less than composed. This is one of those moments. Obi-Wan all at once can sense his concern, apprehension, confusion, and – oddly enough – overwhelming grief. It’s strange coming from Fett and disorienting being one of the first strong signatures in the Force Obi-Wan has been able to perceive since waking up.

“You need to explain this all to them,” Fett says, breaking his silence.

“I’m surprised you didn’t,” Surprised is certainly one way to describe Obi-Wan’s disbelief. It’s common knowledge between the two of them that Fett’s allegiance is to the Skywalkers. If he thinks they should know everything, then Obi-Wan would have assumed he’d have told them already. 

“Wasn’t my place,” Fett responds with a shrug, as if it’s simple as that. Whatever emotion Obi-Wan was able to pick up from him before dissipates completely with the comment. It’s as if the man has reinstated stronger shields than ones Anakin is capable of procuring. “I don’t know what’s okay to share without killing you or something by accident,” He adds. The words themselves, in normal circumstances, would most likely be meant as a joke. Unfortunately, Jango is dead serious, if a little misinformed.

“I don’t know what I can tell them without endangering Anakin,” Obi-Wan more or less agrees, worrying his bottom lip for a split second. If he gives Shmi or Anakin the complete picture, that could instigate fear in both of them. Even younglings know that fear offers a path to the dark side.

“More,” Fett breaks his train of thought in tacking onto Obi-Wan’s initial statement. Obi-Wan feels his head tilt slightly in a visible display of confusion. “Endanger Anakin more.” The bounty hunter is kind enough to elaborate.

“Ah yes. Well, that,” Obi-Wan suddenly wishes that he had more terrible caf to help him swallow down the new levels of guilt he’s learning that he can experience, “That, too, of course.” He finishes. The grim reminder that Anakin is directly in danger because of him does not bode will on his conscience. If the boy has remained hidden from other Force sensitives this long, then it truly is Obi-Wan’s fault that people are able to track him to Alderaan in the first place.

If no one has burst in thus far to kill Obi-Wan and take Anakin, then he can assume that their location hasn’t been entirely compromised. Just how Fett managed to keep that a secret after last night is beyond him, but he nonetheless finds himself immensely grateful for it. Obi-Wan has been exceptionally careful to avoid mentioning either Skywalker in any context. Unless the person responsible has managed to find Anakin’s school before his home, an institution that knows Kenobi by name and facial recognition, it would be impossible to connect Obi-Wan to the two of them. Since presumably that hasn’t happened either, there might still be a degree of anonymity in the Skywalker name, though he doubts his connection or that uncertainty will last for long. Any hunter or assassin worth anything will be able to connect the dots in little time, especially with Obi-Wan still lurking around here.

“I’m what’s endangering right now, aren’t I?” Obi-Wan asks, looking for confirmation of the logic behind his thought process. Surely if Fett had taken the time recounting the events of last night thoroughly enough to compose a list of possible perpetrators, he would have come to a similar enough conclusion.

“I don’t know anything about the Sith or the Force or whatever, and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t know anything about what’s happening,” 

“This isn’t about the Sith or the Force, though, this is about Anakin.” Obi-Wan stresses, knowing it’s a thinly veiled and cheap appeal to Fett’s priorities. The hunter hesitates, stepping away from the window with a resigned sigh before grabbing Obi-Wan’s empty mug and taking it upon himself to wash it by hand. “I was unaware that your word was so binding,” Obi-Wan prods when Fett does not respond, returning to the initial topic of conversation. It at least feels more comfortable than sitting in awkward silence while the water runs in the kitchen.

“I’m not a liar or a cheat, if that’s what you’re accusing,” Jango all but snaps from his new place by the sink. Obi-Wan makes a mental note to never indict the man’s integrity again should they spend any more time together. Forget being a fearsome bounty hunter who dwells in the underbelly of the Galaxy, the caliber of his word is apparently the hard line in the sand for him. Fett sighs and shuts off the water, staring him down. “Whether I like it or not, I’m partially responsible for what happens to them.”

“You’re not the one giving enemies an open-door invitation to Anakin,”

“I could have left you on Tatooine, gotten them away from you,” He says with a glint of dry humor. Then, solemn, “I could’ve warned you not to go last night.”

“I doubt there’s much either of us could have done to prevent something equally as disastrous from happening at some point. 

“Mm. Probably right,” Jango agrees, sitting back down on the couch “Who is he?” He asks suddenly, impossibly soft as if doubly careful to not let the Skywalkers overhear.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, hoping he’s leapt to the correct conclusion. Fett nods, looking at him expectantly. “He is exceptionally powerful.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And potentially the subject of an old Jedi Prophecy,” He bites out, as well, not looking forward to whatever Fett’s response to that is. 

“Ah,” He nods, “Well?” Obi-Wan looks at him, confused by the prompt. “Is he?” 

“Does it matter?” He asks in return. Anakin is almost ten, trying to adjust to a completely new culture. The boy hardly understands himself; he can’t be expected to understand what fate might await him.

“It might to whoever these people are.” Obi-Wan would feel more inclined to believe that had the Council unanimously agreed with Qui-Gon’s theory. unless the Sith are more in tune with the boy’s ability than the Jedi – a terrifying possibility. He can think about it more later when he knows the Skywalkers are safe. _Later, later, later._

Fett swears under his breath suddenly, standing and visibly searching for something.

“What’s wrong?” Obi-Wan asks as he immediately leans forward in preparation to move if need be. He must not be the only one out of sorts and exhausted, because Fett stops and drags a hand over his face with a particularly defeated sigh.

“Do you people not own a single chrono?” He asks, letting his hands fall in open-palmed questioning.

“That depends, how accurate does it have to be?” Obi-Wan asks in return. He’s prepared for the dirty glare immediately shot in his direction, “No, we mostly check a datapad,” He answers sincerely. It’s not completely true, Obi-Wan is certain that there’s a fully functioning chrono in his and Shmi’s – and maybe Anakin, provided the boy hasn’t torn in apart for scraps, yet ¬– rooms. They just don’t have one that can be reset in the common areas. 

“You’re closer, what time is it?” Fett requests with a bold amount of authority in his voice for someone who doesn’t live here, eyeing Obi-Wan’s datapad that he must have left while finishing up work yesterday. Regardless, it’s not a request that Obi-Wan has the energy to reject. He leans forward and checks the digits that display there.

“A little before ten. Mind sharing what’s so urgent?” He tries to ask as respectfully as possible. Fett looks like he’s about to scoff at him but must think better of it.

“Organa wanted to meet up around here, talk about what happened or something at a supposedly safe rendezvous point.” Obi-Wan feels surprise morph his expression. That is certainly not he was expecting the man to say. He figures there’s very little chance that Fett decides to indulge him with more details though, based purely on past precedence.

“Oh? You two are friends now?” He asks, perfectly aware that he has a high potential of annoying the man. To his utter surprise, Fett returns in kind.

“Best of. Can you, I don’t know, stand?”

“I’m coming?” He asks in disbelief, finding it out of character that Jango would invite him to come with him. Still, coming along to speak with Bail is some form of direction, and it gives him something to focus on that isn’t the dread pooling in his stomach.

“Yeah, something about making sure I didn’t actually kill you. Proof of life. He was annoyingly defensive of you. You’re sure you’ve only talked a handful of times?” Obi-Wan pauses for a moment, diligently combing through his memories to come up with an accurate answer. Unfortunately, everything is so tangled that it does little good. He’s afraid that the hard work he’s spent smoothing out the wrinkles this morning alone will undo itself if he pries any further.

“Quite certain, yes,” He confirms anyways. Fett shrugs in confirmation with a look that Obi-Wan doesn’t think that he can decipher accurately enough. It seems Fett has nothing more to say to that, instead looking to Obi-Wan to make the next move. So, he suddenly stands, as if to prove to both himself and Fett that he is perfectly capable of doing so. It takes more strength to stay steady on his own two feet than he would ever admit, knees weak and limbs feeling out of control. 

For the first time this morning, he realizes that he’s still wearing the uncomfortable garb from last night, sans shoes and an outer layer. It’s a monumental testament to just how unbearable every other sensation currently wreaking havoc on him is. If the point of his coming is to prove that he is, in fact, fine, then it wouldn’t be the greatest idea to show up like this. This sounds like it’s mostly a favor for Fett, intended to secure something from Organa, hanging in the balance of Obi-Wan’s well-being. It’s a direction to begin. 

“I’m going to take a moment to get changed,” He says, breaking the temporary silence.

“Okay…?” Fett responds to the sudden comment after a moment, sounding somewhere between annoyed and confused. 

“Right.” Obi-Wan confirms to himself with a heaved breath, forcing himself forward on limbs that don’t feel like they belong to him. He stumbles immediately, reaching out to grab a shadow for balance and only barely managing to catch himself when his hand is met with only air resistance. No matter how desperately he tries, he can’t ignore Fett’s judgmental stare tracked on him.

“You good, there?” He asks, and if Obi-Wan didn’t know any better, he would say that the man sounds almost amused by the blunder. It could be the doing of his (blessedly) receding migraine or that his legs still feel half asleep. Either way, he’s determined to at least attempt refraining from making a fool of himself any further. 

“Yes.” He responds to the jab flatly, refusing to look back towards Fett, still situated in the kitchen.

“Mhm.” It’s only a hum, but it sounds suspiciously like an equally sarcastic return to the initial question. Whatever professionalism Fett approached the beginning of their conversation has completely disappeared. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t just break in.” Obi-Wan gripes under his own breath as he stands at the code pad of his own door. It isn’t often that he actually locks it, but before leaving last night something itched at him to do so. Of course, the only consequence of that seems to be his uncomfortable sleep on the couch.

“Well. Shmi told me I couldn’t.” There’s no indication of dry humor to it. Obi-Wan turns quickly, trying to find where the bounty hunter has moved for his voice to travel that differently. He’s by the window again, craning his neck like he expects to see someone on the street level staring back up at him. Obi-Wan gets the feeling that it isn’t a joke.

“Right, then I suppose I’ll have to thank her for that,” He says with have sincerity, typing the code in from muscle memory alone. 

Bright light assaults him through his blinds, having been left half-open for the few small plants that require more care than those in the common area, lest rowdy nine-year-olds knock them over and ruin their development. After a quick look over, he confirms that everything is as he left it. With the way that everything is unraveling, everyone seeming to be three steps ahead of Obi-Wan himself, it’s a relief. Though, he supposes it would make little sense for anyone to have dug through his things. He would assume they would be far more interested in killing him and possibly Anakin, as well. 

Obi-Wan gets changed into more comfortable and casual clothes as quickly as he can, ignoring the way his heart is hammering in his chest just from the short trek into the space, or the way his throat closes up and his lungs catch on fire and – oh. Perhaps it is not the short walk, but anxiety. Acknowledging it almost makes him lose balance again, a thread barely contained in his mind pulling loose and flooding his senses. _High General – would kill you right now if – the cynicism – no longer certain that one ever does win –blast h- – I hate you! – rise – apprentice –_

Words move too quickly to be perceivable. Images stacked on top of each in a blur of nothing but emotion. He stumbles backwards, knees catching on the side of his bed. Obi-Wan doesn’t have much a choice but to sit, hands shaking and desperately trying to remember all of the advice he received in his childhood about half-visions. He taps his fingers on his knee, breathes as deeply as he can, tries to separate himself from the emotions coursing through him and quiet the noise in his head. It is not a vision at all, but a residual strain of voices he heard last night, something left over in his mind. Obi-Wan hopes that he would be able to sense if someone was still in his head, but as soon as he rationalizes the words for what they are, they decrescendo to nothing. 

Deep breaths. _I am one with the Force._ He repeats the familiar mantra to himself over and over again, sinking into its embrace as it meets him and allowing the disjointed voices to fade to obscurity. It does little good focusing on a future that may not come to pass, a reality that was gifted to him by the intruder who self-reported themselves as a Sith. His duty lies in the here and now. He has to decide how best to keep Anakin from harm. Obi-Wan ignores the way that his jaw quivers when he opens his mouth to take one last measured breath. With what must have been the last remaining influence of the dark side, he feels wrung out, but balanced. 

Answers cannot be found unless he takes action, that much is certain. The Force hums under his skin, delightfully clear for the first time since before he arrived at the event last night. He soaks it in, letting the solace it offers wash over him with the sun pouring in from the window. Obi-Wan has little clue what is happening, nor what he ought to do about it, but the Force is calm. The only urgency within it is to be prepared. For what, Obi-Wan can’t begin to guess, but he knows that he would do well to heed its warning. 

He stands slowly, taking careful stock of his sense to ensure that he won’t collapse, and dons the lighter coat he keeps hanging on the small chair by the window. Beneath it is the bag he keeps most of his belongings in, still in its usual place from earlier in the week. He doesn’t think when he grabs it, as well, adjusting it so that it doesn’t aggravate his already sore shoulder. Obi-Wan is about to exit when he pauses, the door sliding open for him before he can step past the threshold. Nearly everything he owns that can be tied back to him are on his person, now. Nearly everything except…He turns, taking two small steps to the small bedside table that houses an equally small light and an operational chrono, opening the drawer and unburying its legitimate contents. 

He cautiously takes hold of Qui-Gon’s lightsaber, as if the act itself might lock in a violent future. It is same weapon that he killed a Sith with, something whispers that it will not be the last. He places it and the currently vacant hilt gingerly in his bag, no inconspicuous way to keep either at his side. With shaking hands, he smooths down the front of his coat and takes the final few steps out of the room. He does not know what it is that he is preparing for, but he will be prepared. There’s a sense of finality in locking the door behind him, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know better than to promise a timely update, now, but I can promise you that I will try to be as timely as possible.
> 
> I once again want to thank you all for dropping by and bearing with me! If you want to come say hello or just want to see my terrible stream of consciousness, my tumblr is linked [here for your viewing pleasure ](https://dexterjettsters.tumblr.com) (also peep that new url, whaddayaknow?)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been a hot minute. I love all of you <3 Enjoy.

For a man who was mostly dead mere hours ago, Kenobi’s ability to feign complete normalcy is commendable. In fact, if Jango hadn’t been present for every stage of last night’s three ring shit-show, he would probably buy the act, himself. The moment Kenobi stepped back into the living room of the small apartment, he had already donned the mask. His composure is yet to slip even once, leading an exhausted Jango to briefly consider that he’s imagined the previous state of things entirely. It’s disconcerting, in an uncanny sort of way, and were he not running on approximately zero hours of sleep and four cups of caf poured with a heavy hand, he might even consider himself impressed. Jango can’t even bring himself to be as angry about the whole situation as he should be, too busy calculating the quickest way off the planet.

When Organa left the Skywalkers residence earlier this morning, it had still been completely dark. He claimed that his wife would begin to worry if he didn’t make his way back before sunrise proper – though Jango suspects her worrying probably began the moment Organa disappeared on a whim – and Jango had assumed that was the end of it. It was his hope that his payment would be transferred, and he would be on his way as soon as, or if, Kenobi woke up. Instead, he received a well-worded message from Organa explaining that he would rather debrief in-person, a perfectly logical request considering what information Jango _did_ know to convey. The message, however, was also adamant that Jango would not be getting paid in full until they were able to talk again. The logic behind it all is infuriating, but respectable enough that Jango’s desire to see credits transferred to him outweighs his irritation.

While it makes little sense that Organa would put so much value on one paralegal’s life, Jango can understand wanting to discuss allegations about an ancient evil Force user somehow infiltrating a local event, and he can even understand wanting the additional insurance that Jango wouldn’t leave before the morning (which is a fair judgement of his character: he _would_ have just left). It even makes sense that Organa would insist on meeting them in a secondary location. Someone of his station returning to that apartment wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by at least someone, and people talk. Easier for Jango and Kenobi to both find themselves elsewhere, unaffiliated with the Organa’s or any of Alderaan’s upper echelon, than the alternative.

Just because he can grasp the logic behind it doesn’t mean that Jango is any less on edge, though. Leaving the Skywalkers doesn’t sit well with him. While he has to wonder how terrible any hunter must be to be unable to draw the connection between Kenobi and the Skywalkers, then quickly narrow down their residency. It took him maybe fifteen minutes to do just that. Though, to be fair, he did have background information beforehand. Still, it doesn’t track for any hunter worth the credits to be unable to do the same, especially not if that hunter is Montross. Every moment they’re gone is a moment someone could take advantage of their absence and snatch or otherwise disappear Anakin. Shmi wouldn’t even know where Jango and Kenobi were, at present. 

Now that, he _is_ pissed about. Whatever Kenobi’s got in his head was adamant about leaving without a word, despite his newfound composure. Jango hates the idea of leaving Shmi in the dark after everything. Both her and her son had been nervous wrecks most of the night, convinced Obi-Wan was already dying. But Kenobi insisted that if no one had come by yet, they probably wouldn’t in the future. Too tired to argue properly, Jango reluctantly conceded. This isn’t any of his business anyways, what does it matter to him how a reckless, adrift Force user chooses to disclose? He certainly doesn’t know the grander implications of last night, he certainly isn’t a leading source on what will or won’t make the situation worse. For all he knows, Kenobi is right: telling the Skywalkers anything could endanger them further. Even so, he feels guilty. It isn’t often that Jango feels guilty. He doesn’t like it.

He stares out the window of the room they’ve found themselves in, thoughts more prone to wander with sleep deprivation weighing down on him as they wait for Organa to finish whatever discussion he’s having with the guards just outside the entryway. Supposedly, this used to be a safehouse from days when in-fighting was worse here. It certainly doesn’t feel safe. Jango feels exposed just standing here. He assumes the safety component is in its secrecy – adequately masquerading as a corner office in a larger business complex – rather than sanctity of structure. The window existing at all is proof of that.

When he’s satisfied that no one is staring back at them, or even bothering to glance within here on the mostly unoccupied street, turns and tries to blink away the dryness in his eyes. They burn with sleep deprivation, his nerves standing a little too on edge for comfort, though he can’t tell if his twitchiness is residual from the events of last night, lack of sleep, or the inane amounts of caffeine he’s consumed in order to remain fully present. He sighs, it’s probably the caffeine.

“See anything?” Kenobi asks from where he’s seated himself near immediately upon entering the room. He looks perfectly content to wait on Organa, seeming to be precisely the opposite of how Jango is feeling. He’s grateful that he’s back in full armor: at least his exhaustion and simmering frustration won’t be too noticeable with his face covered.

“No. You?” Jango returns. He’s seen Kenobi’s stare drift outside more than once in the short time they’ve been here, knows he’s also safely vigilant about the situation at large. It might be Anakin that people have particular interest in finding, but it’s Kenobi someone wants dead. It’s not paranoia that draws either of their eyes to the eerily empty streets before them.

“No.” It’s an uncharacteristically concise answer to be coming from Kenobi, but Jango nods, nonetheless. He has to remind himself that seeing nothing isn’t a bad thing. Ten minutes. Just ten minutes to clear up whatever Organa wants to know, and then he can be on his way. 

Neither of them can say anything else before Organa’s conversation with the guards must end. He strolls in, waving a hand in Kenobi’s direction as he moves to stand to greet the other, instead sitting, himself. It leaves Jango awkwardly lurking by the window. He doesn’t particularly mind. 

“I’m sorry about that, thank you for your patience,” He begins, addressing the both of them, before distinctly turning his attention to Kenobi, specifically, “It’s good to see you alive and well. How are you feeling?” 

“Much better. I understand I owe you a great deal.” 

“Don’t be absurd, I’m just glad you’re alright,” Organa brushes off. Both of them are far too skilled in small talk for Jango’s comfort. “Thank you both for agreeing to meet me here.” 

“Didn’t have much of a choice.” Jango grumbles despite himself. 

“I assure you, as soon as we’re done here you can be well on your way with the specified pay. Given the apparent secrecy of the matter, I figured it would be best to handle this quickly and without getting anyone else involved.” 

“That’s understandable,” Kenobi supplies quickly, most likely in an attempt to keep Jango from saying anything at all. Jango sighs, resigning himself to whatever this conversation is going to be, and takes a seat next to Kenobi across from Organa. Despite the sheer diplomacy he speaks with, Organa looks equally as tired as Jango feels. 

“I hoped to have figured out some of this internally. Considering the charges that went off, I’m afraid people may be in danger,” It’s an odd thing to point out. Jango would think the main concern would be the potential Force-user who is so set on killing a paralegal. Then again, it may be a cover – something to use to explain his curiosity without mentioning the Sith at all. Jango nods belatedly. Kenobi does not.

“I’m sorry, the what?” He asks, looking towards Jango expectantly. Ah, Jango had forgotten to mention that, hadn’t he? His whole right side has a dull throb in it from that botched landing. He’s lucky that Organa’s got good instincts and even better eyes, otherwise he may have been stuck on that ledge for a while. It’s not something he wants to rehash if he doesn’t have to.

“Doesn’t matter.” He says gruffly, turning his attention back to the senator. “And the other issue at hand?” Organa takes a measured breath, seemingly weighing the worth of Jango’s words vague question. 

“Yes, well, that too. Either way, it’s not comforting to know that whatever happened last night happened under our noses.” He explains. “Do you happen to remember the name of the staffer who gave you your contract?” The question is asked casually enough, though Jango can guess the intent – theoretically, it would be easier to dig up the instigator of the whole mess if they follow up with the only source they have. It’s fortunate that Jango can even remember the last name of the kid.

“Something Honecker,” He responds, maintaining careful apathy to mask any genuine curiosity he’s beginning to feel. There’s a very particular relief in talking strictly business instead of subjective hypotheticals. Jango knows what information is expected from him when an employer asks questions like these. “Didn’t catch the first name. Probably just moved up from an internship or something, if I had to guess.” He adds. Organa nods along diligently, expression unfaltering.

“That might help. I had Breha look into it, but she said she couldn’t find much of anything on him, including his existence in the first place,” Organa explains. Jango is far less concerned with a disappearing intern – in fact, at this point it feels right, especially considering the degree of puppeteering that was going on last night – and much more with the addition of another person’s involvement. This just after Organa said that he didn’t want to drag anyone into this.

“You told Breha,” Jango gripes, luckily succeeding in stifling the bitter laugh that threatens to spill past his lips. Exhaustion tugs at him in a way that makes it more of a feat than it ought to be. There’s a moment in the space before Organa responds that Jango is acutely aware of the absurdity of this whole scenario; he might not be considered the most in-tune with social graces, but even he typically has tact enough to not namedrop the queen of a planet. Well, at least in casual conversation with said queen’s husband, who just so happens to be the one determining if Jango gets his paycheck or not. He hates the Core more than he has words to accurately describe.

“I tell Breha everything,” Organa says, not unkindly, “Is that a problem?” He challenges. Jango has enough sense to parse the question as rhetorical, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking it through. There are worse allies to have, that’s for sure, but that’s assuming the two Organa’s can keep their mouths shut. The last thing he needs is the Skywalker constantly on his mind after this. 

“Nope,” He replies with a subconscious tilt of his head. 

“Good,” the senator adjusts one of the silver vambraces he’s wearing as he says the single word, “If someone had Honecker, you say,” He pauses, seemingly searching for the word. Jango doesn’t have the patience to wait for him to find it.

“Disappeared?” He offers with a degree of certainty he wishes he didn’t have. He’s seen it before, though, and all too often, at that. If the plan – whatever that was – was botched, of course they would try to destroy the trail. Who it is makes no difference to Jango.

“That’s certainly a word to describe it, I suppose,” Bail doesn’t stumble as he speaks – he’s no-doubt been steeped in politics for far too long to ever make such a grave error – but there is a degree of uncertainty, barely perceptible, that immediately informs Jango that the senator is vastly uncomfortable with the situation at hand. Similarly, Kenobi’s stare has been drifting from the fabric of his sleeves to the window. His brows knit together, but Jango assumes it’s more out of contemplation than immediate concerns with their surroundings. He might be equally as discomforted by the blunt speech same as Organa is. 

Organa clears his throat, the first complete lapse in his professional appearance all morning, if it could even be considered that, before continuing forward.

“Regardless, it might be beneficial to consider the greater implications. Especially considering the…other issue at hand,” He says, mimicking Jango’s prior euphemism. 

“If it truly is a fallen Jedi, or the alternative, then I think your people are perfectly safe. It might be presumptuous, but it could be because of me,” Kenobi says, shifting so that he can rest his chin in his hand, partially covering his mouth. “If something else were to happen, disassociated with myself, then I’m not even sure I would know how to help.”

“What about the Jedi Order?” Organa asks, and Jango feels his body go rigid at the mere mention of the organization’s involvement.

“Well, I would hope they know about a Sith revival, by now,” Obi-Wan says, apparently figuring that there’s no reason to avoid the topic by name, here. Jango has spent far too much time with the former Jedi to be able to parse the bitterness lying dormant beneath the words; Kenobi’s the one who killed a Sith, after all. The Order knows what he knows, but that doesn’t mean they’ll bother doing anything about it. “But I’m sure you could contact them through your position as Senator. Though, I would suggest leaving my name out of it except for retelling purposes,” The light above them flickers with a hum as he says it. Jango’s never bothered asking on what terms Kenobi left the Order – it only matters to him that the other is completely unaffiliated these days – but those words make him infinitely more curious about the situation. 

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Organa says, respectful enough to not ask for more information, “Even so, whatever details you can give me about what happened would be appreciated.” When Kenobi hesitates, Jango fills the silence.

“Everything I know I’ve already told you,” He asserts more aggressively than he needs to. He’s not here to reminisce, he’s here to confirm that Kenobi is in fact alive and that he’s done his job and then he’s off to leave this planet as quickly as he possibly can. If his curtness offends, neither Organa nor Kenobi show any indication of it.

“What about the other bounty hunter?” Organa asks as casually as possible. It never occurred to Jango that he might want more information than what he had initial offered the man.

“Montross, if you plan on looking into him. Though I can’t guarantee how much you’ll find except an impressive bounty haul.” It pains him to admit that Montross is skilled at what he does, but the truth of the matter is that neither of them would have lasted this long were it not for their skill. Though, he’s apparently incapable of finding a single apartment in Aldera, so he’ll have to rethink that sentiment.

“And you said something about a-” Organa starts, but Jango foresees the name that’s about to be said.

“I know what I said.” He grumbles, the only option a reference to Jango’s commentary on Tyranus’s involvement. “The way I see it, there are must be two main actors in this whole mess,” He explains, thinking through the logic as he says it. Jango is careful not to mention that it must be _at least_ two, that there are probably more involved for this whole debacle, unless it’s been planned since at least a few months ago.

“How so?” It’s Kenobi who asks first, leaning forward slightly in his seat. There’s something decidedly off about the man – not in a way that Jango finds dangerous or a threat, at all, just different from any other time the two of them have spoken, even this morning. There’s a steadiness there that he hasn’t seen, before, and it occurs to him that it might not be an act. 

“Someone wants you dead, someone wants you alive. Simple as that. They must know about each other. And I see no reason why this has anything to deal with you,” He tacks on, nodding in Organa’s direction. 

“I would prefer my staff to be less susceptible to outside action that might incite violence, I thought that was clear.” Organa replies quickly, coolly.

“Perfectly.” Jango mimics Organa’s tone.

“I would appreciate if you could elaborate,” He swiftly returns them to the original topic at hand. Jango can only assume he means on Montross and the potential of Tyranus’s involvement.

“We were both offered a gig. High payout. Neither of us finished it. Apparently, he’s still in touch with the offeror. His involvement is more an educated guess, than anything.” And gut feeling does not solid evidence make. Montross says a lot of things when he gets monologuing, and half of what he said hadn’t even made complete sense. Not even Jango remembers what jobs he takes these days, why would Montross keep track of something like that – especially something as specific as the Bando Gora aftermath – unless he recently spoke with Tyranus? 

“Anything is a starting point.” Organa encourages him to continue.

“If you’re so sold on figuring this out for yourself, then by all means look into the name Tyranus. Think it might be easier to start with looking for corruption within your own local government, though. Even if he is involved, I can confirm that he’s a complete outsider to Alderaan.” He explains, trying to include as much as he can in as few words as possible so that he won’t be asked about this again. Organa sighs, sounding worn thin.

“If I can be completely honest,” Organa begins, which Jango takes to mean he’s about to be honest regardless of whatever his opinion on the matter is, “I don’t know much about anything Force-related,” He concludes, and Jango swallows down a sarcastic laugh.

“Yeah, that seems to be the majority consensus,” He says in Kenobi’s direction.

“Ah, well,” He begins, “I’ve been considering the events of last night, but I’m afraid I don’t have much more insight. What I was seeing, and hearing may or may not have been legitimate, real – something along those lines.” Kenobi says with an expression void of any emotion, “It’s difficult experience to explain,” _Then explain it_. So many words to say so little, both Kenobi and Organa alike. “Things are hazy, and what I can remember in vivid detail I can’t begin to explain myself. I’ve dealt with individuals who use the dark side before, and not just once,” Now that’s news to Jango, he was under the assumption that all dark side users were Sith. “This felt different and was more invasive. I thought maybe I was imagining it – or at least, I’d hoped that I was imagining it – but Anakin, uh, my student,” Jango takes it upon himself to cut him off.

“He knows who Anakin is.” Kenobi’s shoulders drop in thinly veiled frustration, but he quickly recovers.

“Right, thank you,” He says with a diplomatic nod, “As I was saying, Anakin mentioned that he felt someone there with me. Given his affinity in the Force, it’s safe to assume that both he and I are correct. Which means that the only information I can safely offer you is that someone present last night, Sith or not, had some inexplicable interest in something I may or may not know.” He concludes with an even breath and waiting calmly for either Jango or Bail to dignify a response.

“I’m sorry,” Organa says, like it matters, like he could have done anything to prevent the situation, to begin with.

“I’m just glad to be away from there. But that doesn’t change the importance of the matter at hand. I can’t offer anything that may help you aside from a feeling that whoever it was must have been in attendance. Aside from that, it’s been difficult for me to remember what it was that was occurring in my own head, much less what was transpiring when I wasn’t fully present.” The words come from Kenobi like a solemn admission of his own weakness, a level of shame in them that Jango doesn’t understand.

“I can only imagine so,” Organa offers. 

“I’ve lost time. I suppose I can guess what happened in the spaces that are simply empty,” Obi-wan begins again, apparently spurred on enough by the simple recognition. It feels like the two are speaking a language Jango is only partially proficient in, one where the unspoken implications far outweigh the literal content. “I’m sorry, I’m -” His carefully curated blank mask falters as he searches for the word that he’s looking for, “It’s frustrating. I know that I have all of the pieces, and I know that it’s wrong for me to not be able to put them together, but I’m finding it difficult to actually do it. I want to be able to help; I just have nothing more to offer you aside from recounting events exactly as transpired, and even that, I fear, may be wrong.”

There’s enough time in silence between the three of them that Jango lets the rambling admission from Kenobi sink into him further. An unexpected pang of sympathy hits him. How much time has he lost track of in the past year? Maybe it’s a common side effect from something rummaging around a person’s thoughts. It only started after the Bando Gora for him, after all. 

“Are you alright?” Organa asks, despite Obi-Wan’s composure remaining intact. His reaction is nothing at all like last night, or this morning for that matter. Jango knows that Kenobi must still be shaken. Hell, it took him weeks to shake his own experience with outsiders rummaging around in his mind, and he didn’t even know anything about the danger that they had posed. He can only imagine – something that he certainly would prefer not to invite into his mind in any capacity, actually – what it would feel like being aware of everything while it was happening.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Obi-Wan confirms while Jango finds his stare drifting towards the too-bright looking window with his thoughts. Paired with the already all-encompassing exhaustion, it makes light causes an oddly familiar ache behind his eyes. Flashes of something come back to him, just out of reach, and he grasps for them helplessly as conversation continues around him. It’s a feeling he’s grown all too accustomed to in the past few months but hasn’t stopped to think about.

He’s missing time. It hadn’t occurred to him in a way that should _make_ him overly concerned before Kenobi had said it like something to fear, like something wrong. Jango doesn’t talk to people for reasons outside of business often. Being reminded that this isn’t _right_ , that there is something wrong in his mind, is like getting dunked in ice water. Behind the safety of his helmet, he can feel his expression drop. It’s suddenly the most important thing that he remembers everything that he did after dropping the Bando Gora hunt, before going to bust Zam out from Cloud City. It’s beyond that though, he realizes with a quickly stifled surge of panic. He can’t recall what he did before coming Alderaan again. Montross seemed to have more information on his whereabouts than he himself can recall. If he was on edge before, he doesn’t know how to describe the sort of reaction the realization evokes. This isn’t right. Jango doesn’t just lose track of what he’s done like this. Days blur, sure, but they don’t _disappear_. 

Desperate to piece it together, he tries to put together the pieces in between based on what he has. He remembers…he remembers the sort of headache he’s experiencing now: light-induced, enough to be a bother, but not enough to be truly painful. He would remember when he last hurt like this, in a bone-deep, terribly exhausted sort of way. He would remember what caused that, wouldn’t he? 

“Jango.” Kenobi’s voice snaps him out of his rapidly spiraling thoughts. He can only bring himself to hum in recognition. 

“What’s wrong?” Organa asks, and Jango suddenly wishes that he had the same proficiency Kenobi has when pretending to be composed and unbothered. Instead, he forces himself to meet Organa’s questioning stare, hoping his beskar is enough to avoid further scrutinization.

“Nothing.” He says through grit teeth, also lacking Kenobi’s ability to seamlessly leap back into conversation after falling apart. “Any grand conclusions?” He asks, sarcasm too potent on his tongue and too exhausted to give a shit. 

“Ah, that would be an unfortunate ‘no.’” Kenobi, evidently already immune to reacting to Jango’s sharper words, replies easily. Jango is awake enough to be annoyed with the nonplussed responses being offered to him by both the senator and the former Jedi. He looks back to the window, awaiting conversation with actual importance or a conclusion. While the morning was far too bright for the circumstances, there seems to be another storm blowing in. Apparently, the one from two nights ago hadn’t wreaked enough havoc.

Jango can’t say he prefers the oncoming snow to the sun from earlier. Snow inevitably brings up memories, no matter how hard he tries to scrub his mind clear of them. Galidraan – no, no he’s not doing this right now. He’s off balance from trying to remember what he’s been doing, that’s all. He doesn’t have time to start spiraling in this direction for the umpteenth time. He swallows thickly, breathing through the memories of bloody and dirtied snow and off-white, pokes at something dormant in the back of his mind, morphing into a white that induces an ache behind his eyes: bright, sterile, cold. White halls, something familiar but not. Something on the tip of his tongue and just out of reach. 

“What do you think?” Obi-Wan asks suddenly, his head tilted with a feigned genuine curiosity. It isn’t feigned quite well enough for Jango not to see through, though. It takes him a moment to place the true emotion laced in the words: concern. It’s equally as jarring as legitimate intrigue would have been.

“I already told you, I’m not here to go tracking down Sith. Your business is your own.” Jango states bitterly. Organa and Kenobi share a knowing look, apparently something in the exchange striking them both as unusual. Jango doesn’t have the energy to care.

The light above them flickers again – maybe it’s the incoming weather, or maybe all of the lighting in Aldera is garbage – and Kenobi shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Before he can finish sighing melodramatically, though, all of them are turning their attention towards the entrance of the room. The unmistakable sound of heated debate comes from just outside. Jango can’t make out any individual words, but the tone is all he needs to hear before instinctively preparing to stand, hand resting on one of his holstered blasters. But then Obi-Wan is sighing properly, sounding more resigned than anything.

“It’s Shmi.”

“What?” Jango blurts out before he can stop himself. Kenobi is already headed towards door. 

“It’s Shmi and Anakin.” He repeats, this time specifying the kid’s presence with a particular genre of bitterness Jango does not want to explore.

Jango looks to Organa, trying to see what sort of action he’s about to take. Instead, all he finds is the senator’s own confused expression tracked onto him. Sure enough, Shmi pushes past Kenobi, one hand gripping Anakin’s and the other around something else. They both look exhausted, Anakin nearly falling asleep on his feet as he rubs his eyes with his free hand.

“Hello, Senator. It’s nice to see you again, so soon,” Shmi addresses, nodding her head in Organa’s direction. Before he can respond with something equally as diplomatic, though, she’s turning to Jango. “Jango.” He wouldn’t describe the usage of his name to be cold, by any means – in fact, Shmi’s usual warmth is still intact. That doesn’t stop his name from feeling more like a scolding. “May I sit?” she asks in Organa’s direction.

“By all means,” With the response, the senator sits down fully once more, having half-stood upon their entry. 

Shmi sits next to him, gently pushing Anakin in the direction of the other open chair. It leaves Kenobi standing between all of them. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks flatly. It takes little time for Shmi to fire back her own question in response.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Jango shoots Organa a look – realizing all too late that it does little good considering his face is covered – and then looks to Anakin. The kid might be exhausted, but he’s still beaming up at Jango from where he now sits.

“Shmi, please,” Kenobi nearly begs.

“Please? I thought you would appreciate me coming to return this. Figured it might be important.” She says. Though she sounds calm and sincere, the accusatory tone is not one easily missed. As she says it, she holds out the object she was holding for Kenobi to take. It’s the Archaic book. 

“How–” Kenobi begins, but Anakin doesn’t give him the chance to finish asking whatever it was he intended to.

“You’re not shielding real well right now. It was easy to find you when you left.” For a moment, it looks like Kenobi is torn between his own shame and pride in the child, his face an amalgamation of varying expressions. 

“I understand,” Is what he settles on saying, and Organa shoots Jango another look. It’s nice to know that someone else has no idea what’s happening. “If you let me explain,” He begins, only for Shmi – smile still present and words honey sweet – to interject.

“That is the plan, yes.” 

“If I’m the one endangering Anakin–”

“Obi-Wan, we’ve talked about this,” Jango isn’t even the one being scolded and he feels embarrassed, wishing more than anything to be away from here. Organa must have the same reaction, because he’s quickly intervening before the awkwardness can somehow increase.

“It’s good of you to join us. We were just talking about how you might be able to offer some insight, Anakin,” he says, and Jango feels his breath get caught in his throat. _Is_ that what they were talking about? 

“Huh?” Anakin asks, drowsiness palpable in his voice. “Really?” 

“Really. If your mother wouldn’t mind, of course,” It seems to throw Shmi off, who glances to Obi-Wan with no small degree of uncertainty. The man nods in confirmation.

“Of…of course. We don’t know much,” She says pointedly, “But how can we help?” 

“Obi-Wan said that you might know more than him about whoever it was that caused this.” Organa says, apparently getting more from Obi-Wan’s rambling than Jango has. Anakin comically puffs out his cheeks in thought.

“Um, maybe-” He starts but is rapidly cut off.

Jango doesn’t have time to do much else than duck instinctively a sharp crack fills the room. 

The next few seconds feel like minutes – Kenobi’s disappeared from where he was sitting in previously, and Jango’s senses are scrambling to catch up. His stare shifts the source of the sound, and he’s on his feet before he realizes it. The glass of the window – tempered and fragile and precisely what Jango’s been fearing throughout the duration of the meeting – is frozen in place, shattered. Half. Half shattered because the shards are locked in the one place, before they can even fully separate from each other To Jango’s immediate side, Kenobi stands in front of Anakin, physically shielding him. His attention is drawn the them just in time to watch Kenobi push the glass outwards instead of in by sheer force of will, a humming in his ears momentarily drowned out by the sound of glass shattering out on the street. Jango’s thoughts struggle to catch up, locating the burn of a blaster bolt on the wall behind where Obi-Wan was standing way later than he should have.

He shoves down the panic swelling in his chest, ignoring the way the hum turns to high-pitched ringing in his ears that sounds like warning bells instead of white noise. It’s easy to forget that Kenobi is trained, trained enough to catch breaking glass while what very well may have been saving his own skin and moving to Anakin simultaneously. The implications of killing a Sith is maybe something Jango should have considered for more than a millisecond: Kenobi was a full-fledged Jedi in all but title. He was a _Jedi_. He walked out of the Order; he was not rejected from it. _These_ were the people at Galidraan, the one who cut down his people. Jango forces himself to breathe, to check the surroundings and see if he can spot where the shot came from. He can’t, he’s not – he’s not thinking clearly, memories too close to the surface of his thoughts because of his earlier reeling. Kenobi is just a man trying to protect this child, same as Jango. He wasn’t _kicked_ out of the Order. He chose to leave. That means something. That’s the very reason they’re in this mess. 

Jango does not _freeze_. He’s long since trained the reaction out of himself, but he can’t bring himself to move away from the open space where the window was. Not when he sees Shmi rush to her son in his peripheral vision, or when Obi-Wan starts speaking to the kid, or when he starts speaking to _him_ , voice uncharacteristically harsh and assertive, or even when _Organa_ moves before him, towards the entrance of the room and the guards who have since entered, sounding off orders. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t. 

_Get it together, Fett!_ He all but yells at himself aloud, trying to pry himself from the maelstrom of his thoughts. 

Jango shakes himself out of it, turning back to where the Skywalkers are huddled. Anakin is saying something to him, but the words are swimming in his head with all of the things he can’t remember, all of it infuriatingly just out of his reach. 

“Jango?” Shmi asks, a careful hand on his shoulder, “Are you alright?” He nods numbly, finally coming back to himself. Too many people have been asking him that, recently. 

The ringing in his ears screams at him louder when Kenobi turns to him.

“Montross?” He asks. Jango tries to recap everything he knows. Why wouldn’t the person have shot again? If it was Montross, he wouldn’t have missed in the first place. Then again, he might not have been expecting Kenobi’s reflexes. It still doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t have tried for a second shot. 

“Maybe, or maybe one of your Sith friends. Either way staying here’s not a great plan,” He says, reaching out a hand for Anakin to take before thinking better of it. 

“Sith like on Naboo?” Anakin asks innocently, clearly afraid just by the notion. Kenobi nods, though it looks disjointed and unnatural, and glances back towards the window for a short second.

“Yes, like on Naboo, Anakin.” He confirms, and the ringing – the tangible tension in the air – snaps with a loud pop. The lights burst. Anakin practically crashes into Jango and Shmi gasps, her hand latching onto his arm. The room is dark except for the light bleeding in from the brewing storm outside. Whatever that was must’ve taken out the whole block, the lights in the windows outside are all darkened, as well. Maybe it’s a set-up.

“What _was_ that?” Organa asks, having returned to the edge of the room somewhere between a second ago and now.

“Power must’ve blown,” Jango states.

“Obi-Wan–” Anakin is quickly spoken over.

“We need to get out of here,” 

“Yeah,” Jango agrees nearly immediately as Organa says it, half-dragging Anakin from his place and back towards the entrance.

“Jango,” He turns towards the direction of the voice, Kenobi half-turned towards where the window was and staring at him expectantly, “Jango your word still stands.” He says, and before Jango can even ask what it’s supposed to mean, Kenobi is jumping through the window onto the street and breaking into a dead sprint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are moments when I have to pick and choose which drama to include, and then there are moments when I remember this is fanfic and I can do what I want. 
> 
> Next chapter Shmi's perspective gets added to the mix! It might even the first chapter where there's NO sitting around and talking aimlessly (but also please don't hold me to that I have simple needs in life).
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr if you so choose! ](https://dexterjettsters.tumblr.com)


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